


Tell Me About Mexico

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Always, And I mostly don't like Ian post s5 so there's that, And I'll always side harder with Mickey, Appearances and mentions of other Shameless characters, Can Ian have his shit together please?, Don't like it - I didn't ask, Even though I hate canon post s5, F/M, Feel free to kick rocks whenever you want, How will life look beyond prison, I always fix what I break, I won't miss you, Is it smut or is it love?, Language fitting with the characters, Let's explore sexuality - keep an open mind, Like I said it's Gallavich so... there's cheating in this one, M/M, Multi, Other, Stayed in canon through 9x6, What Happens in Prison, What happened in Mexico, Why the hell would Mickey roll on a cartel?, Would you just read the fucking chapter warnings please?, cartel violence, it's Gallavich so enter at your own risk, mickey deserved better, so there's that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-17 16:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 53
Words: 66,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16978206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: --------One quick glance back in the rearview. One. That’s all. All he will afford himself. Then he will never think of him again. Never.Sweaty hands on the wheel. Watching the expression of awe, relief, tears swelling in those hypnotic eyes as he inches the green car further past the border crossing. Knowing this is it. This is the end. It’s not us, not the ending he wanted. But the end nonetheless. One he’ll have to fulfill. For himself now. Maybe the only person he could ever truly count on in the end.--------I welcome constructive criticism in regard to writing style, feel free to ask questions, but if you just don't like it - then don't read it!Read the chapter notes if you want my train of thought on some of the choices I made throughout the story.  Some of the story choices won't make sense until the very end.  So make it there please before you go off on me for including cheating in a storyline when cheating is a canon rule anyway.  The Mexico storyline and these OCs were explored in Right There Next To You without the bisexual storyline, so if bisexual is not something you're willing to be openminded to, then read that one instead.





	1. Tell Me About Mexico

**Author's Note:**

> Let's get in that cell baby, and then let's flashback to the border.  
> (I have no idea if the bits of Spanish throughout the piece are properly formatted, I used an online translator)

Tell Me About Mexico

A heavy sigh parting his lips, meeting the bare flesh of the chest his head is resting on. A hand in his bright ginger hair, grown out now to its original color. A shaggy mess of unruliness. The fingers when pressed together reading ‘FUCK’ slipping in and out of the strands of soft hair.  
“Tell me about Mexico Mick,” turning to rest his chin on the hardened pec beneath him.  
“Again?” a sigh towards the empty top bunk.  
“Unless you got a problem with that,” sliding up to level their eyes with one another, pinning a hand to the barely-there mattress beneath them, the fingers that read ‘U-Up’ entwining and curling around the pale freckled ones.   
“I don’t have a problem at all tough guy,” easy smile spreading, gaze aimed toward the galaxy of swirling stars he sees every time he peers long into the green irises peering back at him.  
It’s not ideal, but it works. The prison cell they’ve made into their fortress. A fortress of love within a tumultuous world of prison violence. Both of them prepared for the stint behind bars, both of them perfectly capable of protecting themselves, and forcing survival. But knowing they have each other. It has made the day-to-day struggle of maintaining a semblance of sanity just a little bit easier. Maybe that’s all that matters.  
“The beach again?”  
Eager, somewhat childlike nod.   
Heavy sigh, fingers tracing the carved jawline of the man he’d do anything for. Including lie about Mexico. The bullshit stories of sandals and tequila worth it to see the peace in Ian’s eyes, “white sand, blue-green ocean stretching on for eternity…”  
————  
One quick glance back in the rearview. One. That’s all. All he will afford himself. Then he will never think of him again. Never.   
Sweaty hands on the wheel. Watching the expression of awe, relief, tears swelling in those hypnotic eyes as he inches the green car further past the border crossing. Knowing this it it. This is the end. It’s not us, not the ending he wanted. But the end nonetheless. One he’ll have to fulfill. For himself now. Maybe the only person he could ever truly count on in the end.   
He drives for an hour before the adrenaline catches up in the form of nausea. Pulling off the road into the dirt of the never-ending desert. Flinging the door open just in time to heave onto the hot ground. Tears and snot smearing across his face when he swipes the back of his hand across it.   
Deep breath, make a plan. Legit ID would be step one, preferably one with a dude’s picture on it. Clothes. Fuck. Get out of this awful dress would be step one. Yanking at the wig he’d all but forgotten about. Tossing it to the dirt. Not bothering to take in his surroundings before undressing. Down to bare skin. Everything in a pile. Flames, last image he left Ian with burning in the desert at his feet. Good, thinking smugly, leave him with the image of me in a fucking dress. A fucking dress. And heals. Fucking heals. Women are nuts. Wear that shit.   
Shaking his head to himself as he lights a cigarette. Remembering only when he leans back against the closed car door that he’s stark naked. Should have left that ginger fuckhead with this image, laughing to himself, eyes pressing closed tight. Hand rising unconsciously to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Chastising himself for thinking again about his firecrotch.   
“Done,” he says aloud to the open air around him, “I’m fucking done.”   
Startled when a crusty old voice responds, “bueno.”  
Too shocked to do anything including cover his junk, jaw dropping to look at the old woman approaching him on foot. She’s wrinkled like tissue paper torn haphazardly off a Christmas gift. Or how Mickey supposed it would be ripped off a Christmas gift. He’d never actually witnessed the act. Briefly jarring himself when the image of a little boy with his eyes sitting under a tree lit with red lights, branches heavy with silver ornaments, passes his vision. Kid’ll be fine, reminding himself, better off without him. Don’t know shit about the old rich douche that Russian whore ended up with, but certainly will provide the kid with Christmas at least. House, food on the table, warm clothes. Probably a fuckin’ private school. Or a tutor that comes over to teach him or some shit. Won’t even have to leave the mansion to lay eyes on the normal population. Fuck, he’s going to be a pussy, running his hand down over his face and laughing with himself as the old woman eyes his body.   
Unashamed. The both of them.   
“Buen material genetico.”  
“No idea the fuck you just said,” shrugging, taking a long pull on the cigarette between his lips. Sure he learned a few lines from Damon, but none of those seem particularly right for this kind of situation. Maybe leaving him in that parking lot was a bad idea.  
A snicker from behind him cuts into this head. Too wound up in his own fucked up self pity to be aware of his surroundings. Dumbass, fucked yourself over already.  
“She thinks you’ll pass the test,” clear, steady female voice behind him, off to his right, footsteps growing nearer through the gravel and sand. Head turning in slow motion, barrel of a shotgun the only thing he can see.  
Hands up at his sides immediately, keeping the cigarette clenched firmly between his lips. Two choices here. Stand and play this out. Or run.   
Who am I fucking kidding, “I’m not much of a runner,” admitting to the shotgun aimed at his temple.  
“Good, saves me a bullet.”  
Feeling suddenly as naked as he actually is, and feeling also the heat of her eyes scanning his body, her muttered echo to the old woman as she scans him up and down, and back down, “buen material genetico,” an air of cocky superiority in her voice.   
His eyes have yet to travel beyond the barrel of the gun. Not certain he wants to.   
“Face me, keep your hands up.”  
Deep breath, doing as he’s told. Daring to scan his line of sight beyond the rifle. She’s tall, skin kissed bronze with the desert sun at her back. Baseball cap and aviators shielding her face. He notes the hair buzzed close to her scalp, wondering oddly enough, if it’s all buzzed off. She’s clearly American.   
“I lower this gun, you gonna run?”  
“Got a million things to run from already, don’t feel like adding you to the list.”  
“Good answer,” a smirk spreading across her pink lips as the rifle is lowered to her side, “those your clothes?” tilting her head towards the pile of charred cotton, poly, and spandex.  
A shrug of his broad muscular shoulders is the only response he knows himself to be capable of at this moment.   
“Wallet. Hand it over.”  
Keeping his hand palm out toward the armed woman before ducking into the open window of the driver’s side door, reaching to the dash, fingers meeting the envelope. Internally cursing himself out for not noticing Ian had left his life savings in the car. Cursing himself out again when he wishes he had just left his damn lanky ass in the car instead. Sliding over the envelope, hoping the broad won’t notice it, grabbing the mostly empty wallet. Tossing it to her.   
She laughs immediately at the image of the fake ID, “Michelle, huh? Nice pic. Whatcha running from? Law? Crazy ex-wife you owe child support to? Gang life? Military?”  
No response. Biting back a ‘fuck you’. Not going to learn this life the hard way. He’ll bite his own tongue bloody before he’ll let his natural hotheadedness ruin this chance for freedom.   
“All of the above,” mumbling to herself as she pulls a small handful of bills out of the fold, quickly thumbing through with a shrug before replacing them. Folding the trifold, extending it towards him momentarily before changing her mind and taking it back. A quick open, the item he was hoping she’d not notice. The photo. The photo he was trying to gain the strength to throw on the fire, “boyfriend?”  
Unsure of the exact moment he became proud and secure in his sexuality, “yeah,” quickly clarifying to himself, “ex. Ex- boyfriend.”  
“Ginger, huh?” her accent isn’t entirely unlike his own. Maybe further north. Muted by a few years of living here he supposed. Smugness creeping into her smile, “I’d be running from that too,” tossing the wallet his way but not the picture just yet.   
“What the fuck you want with me?” temper starting to broil, eyebrows creeping further towards his hairline. Clearly she doesn’t want his money. Or the car, “the fuck does buen genetico material mean?”  
Smirk, looking over her shoulder quickly at the old woman. Dropping the aviators to the tip of her nose. When her eyes make contact with his, just briefly he sees a moon and million stars. A galaxy passing his realm of things he thought possible and impossible.


	2. I Know It's Bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian calling Mickey out for not being open with him about important things including his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this will take Terry to an even more despicable level of monster. Or maybe it'll explain that much more about Mickey's resistance to affection and the softer side of life.

I Know It’s Bullshit  
Lying on his back on the bottom bunk already. Or still. Mickey’s not entirely sure which. Suspecting that his meds are out of balance or maybe he’s been cheeking them again. Not wanting to bring it up, not wanting to argue when there’s so much left to discuss and not enough time to just enjoy being together without the bullshit of the outside world bearing down on them.  
Mickey got the Cadillac deal. He’s not a snitch, not by nature, and never to a fellow Southie. But this cartel, fuck they’re nasty, fucked up beyond the things even he witnessed. Each rung of their ladder more fucked up than the last. When he saw the opportunity to roll, he sang his way to the sweetest deal in the history of the Milkovich family - including his uncle who snitched on a drug kingpin back in the ‘80s. He had to pull a few favors once inside to get his cellmate locked down. But that’s between him and a particular CO. Stay that way too. ‘Less the CO wants to get himself locked up.  
Connections inside the joint, connections outside the joint; get a man a leg up in this world.  
“Yo sleepy face,” a soft memory like a warm coat winding through his brain at the nickname, “you gonna stay in bed all day or we gonna grab chow?”  
“I’m awake Mick.”  
“Yeah I see that, you hungry?”  
A shake so faint it may have never happened, “I know it’s bullshit Mickey.”  
“What is?” taking a seat beside his gorgeous lover’s hip.  
The galaxy floating in the depth of his green irises dim today, “Mexico,” barely above a whisper, “I know it’s bullshit. I know by the marks on your back and the scar on your ass, your abdomen - that’s a stab wound, isn’t it? I know by the shit you say in your sleep now. The nights you wake up in a cold sweat, it’s not from the shit Terry did to you, not anymore. Fuck Mick,” sliding a hand over his face that hasn’t been shaved in a few days, anger and frustration bubbling to the surface, “I hurt you. I caused so much hurt for you. I acted like none of it mattered, maybe I thought you couldn’t feel pain or something. You got shot twice because of me. Because of me and some fucked up relationships with old men. You went to juvie twice because of me. Pistol whipped by your dad, raped while I did nothing…”  
“Ian, he would have shot you without blinking…” softness creeping into his voice the way it always does when attempting to keep Ian calm and grounded, “besides, you don’t need to be thinking about that shit now. It’s the past and…”  
“You keep saying that! It’s the past, it’s the past. Sure a wound will heal in time, but if it’s deep enough the mark will remain forever. Last time I saw Mandy, she told me some shit, told me never to bring it up to you. I didn’t see the worst of what Terry did to you,” eyes full of tears that won’t brim over as his gaze drops to Mickey’s hand lying awkwardly on the bed next to him, “and your mom,” voice trembling, a gentle whisper, “sleepy face.”  
Mickey stands so abruptly he just barely misses the frame of the top bunk with his head, palms finding and rubbing into his eyes. Breath becoming erratic, making up his mind to fight this rising emotion. Nothing he can do about it now.  
————  
“Good morning sleepy face,” her body weight on the bed next to him, her soft gentle hand on his shoulder, “my sleepy face,” voice sing-song, each syllable dripping with her remaining Ukrainian accent, “my favorite sleepy face,” cooing at her favorite son, “time to get up,” when the ocean behind his eyelids becomes visible. She smiles, but even to the seven year old blinking sleep away there’s something heavy behind it, something weighing her down, pinching her features with worry. Her gentle finger reaches to trace the bruising around her son’s eye, “your siblings are off to school. You’re going to be late,” not a warning, a statement, “we’ll need to talk.”  
Moments later a tired Mickey begrudgingly appears in the kitchen. Face scrubbed clean, teeth brushed but still blinking sleep from his swollen eyes.  
“Sit,” using the spatula to point to the chair on the end. Facing her back at the stove as she flips the french toast. Watching her load a plate for him. Pouring coffee for herself and sitting across the table with a supportive smile, “eat.”  
Apprehensive for a hungry boy, uncertain of this strange morning. The quiet in the house without his siblings. His father still passed out after a night of heavy drinking. Thinking of his father he absently reaches, gingerly touching the bridge of his nose.  
“My sweet Mikhailo,” taking his small hand as it drops back toward the table, “my sweet, difficult baby boy. Do you know why your father hit you last night?”  
“Because I said I’m going to marry Mathew Bowden when I grow up.”  
“Do you understand why he hit you?” squeezing his hand tight, voice growing desperate.  
“Because Milkoviches aren’t queer.”  
Both of her hands wrapping around her son’s small one now, leaning her face toward his perfect angelic one, “my sweet Mikhailo, this is hard to understand. It will always be hard to understand. There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing wrong with being attracted to, or in love with, other boys. There will never be anything wrong with love, no matter the form it takes. But your father, he,” trailing off to find words that may possibly suffice, blinking back tears, “your father doesn’t like things that are different from him. He doesn’t like people that are different than him. He thinks that violence is the answer to everything in life. He thinks he can beat the differences out of people. As you grow older should you find your attractions to other boys growing stronger, please promise me Mikhailo that you will keep those emotions hidden from your father. Please,” the squeezing on his hand becoming painful, the desperation in her eyes strengthening to blur the ocean of blue, “promise me Mikhailo.”  
“I promise,” his voice barely squeaking out of his full lips.  
“I love you my sweet difficult perfect boy. I love you exactly as you are…”  
Her words cut off in her throat when an angry fist connects with the side of her head. Taking a fistful of hair to drag her off the chair, slamming her face again and again into the stove.  
————  
“Let’s get some chow Ian,” repeating himself, hoping to distract from the shaking in his voice. Unable to turn, unable to face his lover. Not with the images of that day so ripe in his brain. Not with the sound of her skull cracking on the stove echoing in his mind.  
Ian shifts off the bunk, getting to his feet to close the gap between them. Feeling or hearing him, or both, Mickey’s voice gruffly demands, “don’t touch me.”


	3. A Snickers, A Blow Job, And A Tattoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies Gallavich style

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't want to read about a blow job turn back now!

A Snickers, A Blow Job, and A Tattoo

Exhausted yet unable to sleep. Uneasy about their earlier argument. Odd to be sleeping in their own bunks. Or not sleeping.   
Mickey rolls from his back to his side. His hand immediately sliding under his pillow. Meeting the crinkling sound of a wrapper. Not stifling the smile that rises when he removes a Snickers bar, “that an apology firecrotch?”  
“No,” voice clear, wide awake, “that an opening to come to your bunk? Give you my real apology?”  
“Depends.”  
“On?”  
“What the apology is.”  
“Blow job.”  
“Keep talkin’ Gallagher.”  
“Well,” shifting to peer over the edge of the bunk, “I could keep talking, or,” smiling at the sight of Mickey’s raised eyebrow in the dimness of the prison cell, “or you could shove your dick so far down my throat I won’t be able to speak until you come.”  
“Soundin’ better all the time,” the cocky nod giving Ian the go ahead to jump off a fucking cliff if it meant ending with a kiss from that perfect mouth that’s lifted into a half smile. Sensing that mouth is not ready for kisses just yet, Ian wastes no time in pressing a hot trail of kisses, licks, and nibbles down the perfectly muscled chest and stomach of his partner. Mick was right, not much else to do in here but workout. And it shows. Though Mickey could gain two hundred pounds and in Ian’s mind he’d still be the most beautiful creature that ever walked the earth. Maybe he should tell him that sometime. Or all the time. Even if it meant receiving that Milkovich death stare or the typical bird as a response to all compliments.   
Sliding a hand up his thigh, meeting the edge of his asscheek and cupping, caressing gently. Already having convinced himself the promised land would not be his, not for awhile, not until the memory of earlier this morning had faded. So many things, so much more he wants to pry out of Mickey. Knowing it’s nearly impossible to talk about, to think about. But also knowing as much as he tries to stifle it, those smoldering coals in his gut he’s been trying so hard to extinguish for so many years, those will burn him alive before they ever go out.   
Trying to control his own growing excitement at the sight of Mickey’s incredible erection. Doubting he’ll even get a favor thrown his way, if the tables were turned, he’d make his counterpart wait it out. Working his way slowly down this body he’s grown so accustomed to. This body that feels like magic beneath his fingertips. Stirring a tornado of emotions within him. Even through the days of hazy medication. He’s mostly learned to live with the meds, when they’re balanced he nearly feels normal. Nearly. But all it takes is a little stress to throw it all off. Staring down the rest of his life being medicated or unpredictable, it’s easier to face with Mickey at his side. But the more time he spends with this amazing man, the more he realizes that he doesn’t deserve him. He never did.   
The pause long enough to feel Mick’s eyes on him. Looking up to meet the only sea he’s ever seen, glittering with a sexy yearning reserved only for Ian, “you gonna stare at it all night or fuckin’…” voice cutting off when Ian’s mouth makes contact. Taking only the tip at first. Teasing and lingering. Slow, methodical. Knowing the tease for Mickey is enough to drive him to the brink. Hands slipping over flesh, pinching, rolling, squeezing. Knowing exactly how to touch this man to receive the desired effect. Off and on for over a decade they’ve been exploring each other. No one else has ever compared. No one will.   
Remembering back to their first time together. Unexpected. A little violent. A little messy. Rushed. But an excitement Ian had never known. The stirring of butterflies in his stomach every time Mickey’s eyes landed on his. The way his hips felt beneath his hands, the tightness and yearning felt with every thrust. HIs quiet moan muffled into the pillow, one hand pressing firm against Ian’s ass, the other clenched into a fist as he came.   
Feeling it now, the warmth of his essence pulsing out of his incredible penis. Coating Ian’s throat, realizing now that he doesn’t need a favor. Without touching him at all, with just the thought of him, with the sound of his pleasure he drew a tingling, shivering orgasm out of Ian as well.   
Lingering for a moment to enjoy the nearness, the post-orgasm gloss, feeling like a fourteen year old again with a mess in his boxers. He raises his head to get a better view of his man’s perfect face.  
Blinking down toward him, head propped on his hands, “the fuck you grinnin’ about?”  
The expression unfaltering as he lifts his undershirt over his head. Leaning back to sit between Mickey’s knees as his hands peel back a bandage on his chest, crusted with blood. Black ink under his skin permanent.  
“The fuck?” sitting to get a better look, “oh fuck Gallagher, that’s…”  
“You’re under my skin too Mick. Always have been.”  
Unable to stifle a smirk at the fresh ink in Ian’s chest - Mikhailo Aleksandr, “run outta ink or what?”  
“No,” a pink blush creeping into his pale cheeks, “left that part blank. Thought maybe someday,” eyes rising to meet Mick’s, “maybe someday your last name might be the same as mine.”


	4. 3 Blackbelts And DNA On Her Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snippet of Mexico

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a character that will have a profound effect on Mickey - because who doesn't like a badass chick?

3 Blackbelts and DNA on Her Boots

“Thought you were gay pretty boy,” without looking up towards him.  
“Am,” mumbling as he averts his eyes from her long legs that he can’t seem to stop staring at.   
“Good,” she’s scrubbing something off the toe of her boot. Sitting on her cot, the short jean shorts that’s he’s become certain are the only jeans she owns. Fraying at her ass, so short on the right thigh they may as well be underwear. More fabric on the left leg but still threadbare. Worn whitened strands of material being peeled off hastily every morning when she steps into them.  
Towel drying his hair, taking the seat on his own cot across the floor from her, “whatcha scrubbing on?”  
“DNA,” with a shrug.  
“DNA,” half laugh, thinking he’s certain no matter how much scrubbing she does, the DNA from however many years she’s been wearing those beat-up combat boots will never come off. Any given moment there’s blood, bones, and hair somewhere in the treads or on the toe. She’s certainly not one to wear boots as a fashion statement. Boots serve a purpose, Mickey was never one to understand them as an accessory either. Damn hipsters.   
“How much you know about me pretty boy?” half mumbled, aimed more towards the boots than the man across from her.  
“What do ya mean?”  
“How much of my shit you snoop through?”  
Scoffing at the accusation. Two weeks here, not sure what they’re doing, not sure what his purpose here serves. But it’s shelter and food.   
Hand slipping into her pocket, producing a knife. Flipping it open to set it menacingly on her thigh, “spill it.”  
“Fine,” hands rising at his sides though she’s not even watching him, “I didn’t find your dildo collection if that’s what you’re wondering.”  
“Dildos,” snorting toward the boot she’s inspecting, “can’t say I enjoy a real cock. Doubt I’d enjoy a plastic one.”  
“Silicone most likely.”  
“With all the rotating and vibrating, three heads and suction cups. Stay away from the prostitutes ‘round town. ‘Less you want your dick to rot off. Rocky’ll take you to med soon. Real thorough exam have you crying for a prison raping in no time. Gotta pass inspection first. Then we’ll start you on the mats.”  
Eyebrows rising with each statement, too much to process, too many follow-up questions to voice and she’s still waiting for an answer but…  
“So, how far you get into my shit?” her eyes rise now to meet his and he can’t help but be completely honest.  
“Just your certificates over there,” tilting his head towards the drawer at the foot of her cot, “two blackbelts, huh?”  
“Three actually. You’re a shitty snoop.”  
“You ain’t got much shit.”  
Shrug, “materials can be replaced. Friends can be replaced. Only thing that can’t is life.”  
“Then why the certificates?”  
Stillness and silence as she studies his eyes, scanning his face. Expressionless and calm. The first move is to set the boot on the floor. The second is to reach into the drawer. Producing the first of her blackbelt certificates. Eyes remaining on Mickey’s the whole while. Lifting a lighter off the table. The paper in her left, the lighter in her right. Flicking, a small yellow flame dancing in the gentleness of her exhale. Contacting the paper dangling in the air between them. Her eyes never leave his as the flames rise up the paper towards her fingers. Letting the fire lick the tips of her fingers as the paper burns and turns to ash. Repeating the process with the second certificate.   
Mickey, uncertain of what to say, of what to do. Staring intently back into the galaxy in her eyes. Calmly swirling around her pupils. Those pieces of paper seemed to be the only personal items of meaning in her room. And she just burned them. Without flinching, without blinking.  
“Life is sacrifice. Living it is a choice. Gain, lose. Give, take. Hurt, heal. Remember,” slight shrug of her square shoulders, “or don’t.”  
In one fluid motion her boots are securely tied on her feet, her ball cap is snug on her head, aviators hiding her eyes, and she’s walking out the door into the blinding sunshine.


	5. A Q-Tip And An Ass-Kicking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some pillow talk and a little more Mexico.

A Q-Tip and an Ass-kicking

“Tell me about Mexico Mick,” sighing into the back of his head, his thick dark hair that has always smelled like home to Ian.  
“Thought you said that was bullshit.”  
“A pretty story from a pretty mouth. Never hurt anyone.”  
“Pretty mouth, huh?”  
“Pretty mouth, pretty face,” soft lips pressing against his exposed shoulder, “beautiful man.”  
“Beautiful,” snorting in disbelief, he’d flip him the bird but his hand is wrapped too tightly and too comfortably to be bothered with removing it, “fuck you Gallagher.”  
“Been asking you to for over a year now Mick,” during his time with Trevor he’d grown to enjoy the pleasure sessions. But he’d never bottomed for a real cock. Never really considered it, and in his mind it was always with Mickey. But Mickey was, well Mickey was Mickey. Ian’s fear of having the intimacy of the first time shattered by a raping in prison were quickly assuaged by Mickey’s presence and his vast array of connections inside the joint. Seemed like he had a long standing affiliation with every gang and every walk of life in here. Never fully pledging allegiance to anyone in particular. Only warning Ian with clear sea blue eyes, stay the fuck away from the skinheads. Terry’s kind.   
Even the guards were on Mick’s side. Don’t know how the fuck he pulled that one off since he shit-talked each and every single one of them. Guess they knew he’d never pull shit on them, just liked to rile them up verbally. Which was more amusing than anything. Those quick-witted wicked words spewing from such a beautiful mouth.   
Heavy sigh, “keep tellin’ ya, ain’t gonna work ‘less it’s done right.”  
“What’s that even mean?”  
“Sure in fuck don’t mean a quick shower fuck. Or a spit lube. Means time. Means foreplay. Means a real bed. Otherwise you won’t enjoy it.”  
“You gettin’ all romantic on me Mickey Milkovich?”  
“No, just don’t wanna hurt you with my fat cock,” turning with a wicked grin to match the sparkle in his eye. An irresistible combination for Ian. Eagerly pressing his lips against that smile that makes his heart pick up speed.  
—————  
Panting, sweating, exhausted. And trapped. Trapped between her deceivingly strong thighs.  
“Tap out bitch,” yanking his arm nearly out of socket.  
“Fuck,” tapping quickly. Flopping back on the mats, “Jesus.”  
“Scrappy. I’ll give you that,” standing over him with a sneer, “not skilled. But scrap can get you places. Think I can work you into something pretty boy,” instead of offering her hands to pull him to his feet, she sighs, plopping down on the mat beside him.  
“Can call me Mick,” hands resting loosely around his bent knees.  
“Call you whatever the fuck I want. And you’ll answer to it too.”  
Scoffing towards her but the galaxy in her eyes stopping any comments from passing his lips. It’s dancing and swirling, sparkling brightly. He can’t stifle the smile that rises when he sees it. Taking him back to the moment he laid eyes on Ian for the first time. Sharp pain of longing lurching through him with the thought of that man. Swallowing it down, attempting again to bury him.   
“The fuck am I doing here anyway?”  
“The fuck you think?” running her long skinny fingers through the white blond of her faux-hawk. Tilting her face skyward. Maybe looking for a cloud.   
“I dunno. This morning I’m getting the biggest fuckin’ q-tip known to man shoved up my cock. Now I’m sittin’ here catchin’ an ass beating from some lanky chick.”  
“How big was it pretty boy?”  
“Fuck you.”  
“In your dreams,” turning her face just long enough to flash him a wink.   
It’s not true, but it doesn’t stop the strange flush that creeps up Mickey’s neck. Watching as she gets to her feet, reaching back for his hands, a boost to his feet, “eat. Wash up. I’ll tell Rocky you’re ready.”  
“Ready for what?”  
“Long as you don’t got AIDS you’ll find out tomorrow night,” calling over her shoulder as she takes off for a jog down the dirt road winding through more dirt and desert around them.   
“AIDS, the fuck? This some kind of sex thing? The fuck?”   
She was mostly right about the medical exam. Really didn’t need to be so goddamned thorough. Drew enough blood to make even a Southie dizzy. Swear that nosy fuckn’ doctor looked at every single centimeter of his skin. Turn your head and cough, “yeah fuckin okay,” mumbling to himself, getting a cigarette out of his jeans strewn in the dirt. They got him the basics for clothing. Let him take the money and his wallet with him. Left everything else behind.   
Well it ain’t the beach, but it ain’t a cell either.   
————  
Feeling Ian’s breath on the back of his neck, heavy with sleep. Comforting. His arm strewn over Mick’s hip, fingers laced together. How the fuck’s he supposed to explain any of the real shit that went down in Mexico? And the real reason for having snitched when the opportunity arrived. Free hand meeting the bridge of his nose, pinching hard. Eyes closing, deep breath in attempt to stifle the image rising.


	6. Pick Your Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What exactly is Mickey getting into in Mexico?

Pick Your Poison

She snorts another line, walking to the door, waiting for headlights. The aches of yesterday’s match slowly catching up to her, kneading at her right shoulder. It’s time. Dusk has fallen. Blanketing the desert. The sky beginning to twinkle with the brightest stars humankind could witness.   
Stepping out into the dirt when headlights finally approach. Opening the passenger side door as the old truck lurches into park. Not withholding a cocky grin when her eyes land on the bruised swollen face, head leaned back against the headrest, “not bad for a rookie,” taking his arm to help him slide out of the truck, “Garcias take care of ya good?”  
She nods over at Martin, the quiet old man in the driver’s side. He tips his hat to her before taking his leave toward the main house.   
“Alright pretty boy,” only struggling with his weight when it comes to the stairs, depositing him on his cot. Kneeling in front of him to remove his boots, “Senor Garcia’s a good stitch, hey? That won’t even scar,” sweeping her finger in the air over the gash by his hairline. Taking a moment to study his face, “Rocky’ll probably let ya take next week off. Get more training in ya before she puts you back in the action. She can’t always control who’ll buy ya. They’re mostly harmless. A couple cartel members you’d do your best to avoid. A few of the Alvarez boys are some seriously twisted fucks but they won’t be sniffing ‘round again for a few weeks.”  
Noting the exhaustion in his beautiful eyes she quiets. Studying his face for a long moment before dropping to his knuckles. Split, but cleaned, “get some sleep. Rocky’ll be by in the mornin’.”  
————  
Waking with a start to the feel of Ian’s shifting weight.  
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” leaning in to kiss his cheek before continuing to crawl over him, out into the center of their cell to stretch.   
Fingers meeting his eyelids, rubbing with a groan before blinking sleep away to watch his ginger’s rock hard body stretching out last night’s kinks. Thinking he could wake up to this sight every day. It’s almost perfect.  
————  
A deep breath though his nose. Sweet scent of weed wafting through the open door. The sharp pain of a busted nose forcing a moan from his lips. Fingers rising unconsciously to tenderly feel along the bridge. Someone reset it at least. Taking a quiet mental inventory of all the bumps, bruises, and breaks inside his body as he decides it’s okay to sit up. A second moan exiting without permission.  
Eyes clearing slowly, taking note of her empty cot. Sheets tucked tight, flat and unslept on.   
Someone removed his boots. His clothes. Finding a pair of sweats in the pile under his cot. Stepping into them with aches he’s familiar with. Spent his entire life with these kinds of aches. Mornings without them seem unreal, somehow empty and unfulfilled. Mornings without the aches of a beating, those were the times Terry was locked up.   
Dragging himself to the small bathroom to clean up. At least a little. Cold water feeling amazing on his overheated swollen face.   
She’s standing near the doorway. One foot on the bottom step. The other in the dirt. Bare feet. They’re either bare or clad in combat boots.   
“Mornin’ pretty boy,” offering the joint in her right hand to him.  
She watches with a smile as he takes a long toke. Blowing it out slowly through his cracked lips, “that’s some good shit.”  
“Buen material genetico,” that cocky grin rising.  
“Fuckever.”  
She laughs, already loving the rise in his eyebrows, like a meter of his annoyance level, “well you did better than me my first time out. You made it through three rounds. I had ya out in one. Rocky won fifty bucks off ya. Well technically she won fifty bucks off the brute that KO’ed ya,” she nudges his arm with her elbow, offering the joint back after her deep inhale, “my take on the night was close to 5K, ain’t bad for midseason.”  
His eyebrows are rising further up his forehead, nearing his hairline, blurting out forcefully, “the fuck are we doing here? The fuck am I doing here? No one is answering my questions. No one is giving me any information. The fuck is…”  
“You got cash. Leave. Road’s over there,” her chin tipping towards the dirt leading down the hill into just another valley of dirt.  
Silence hangs in the air for a long moment as his blue eyes scan the horizon. No he didn’t have a plan. He never had a plan. The only part he thought through was taking Ian to the beach. Living off what they could lift from tourists. Sleeping on the beach under a blanket of stars. Listening to the sound of the ocean waves as they lulled to sleep in each other’s arms. That was his plan. Being away from prison. Away from Chicago. Regret now eating at him, gnawing day and night. At least behind bars he could still contact his son. The one thing he knew was his. Whether he wanted it or not. It would always be his, even if he wasn’t present in his every day life. Yeah, sometimes when he looks at him he still thinks of that day. Sitting slumped on the couch, barely conscious, watching Ian’s disgusted expression as the whore rode him, his dad’s gun pointed at them the entire time. And fuck, how many times after? How many beatings did he catch from his dad for not fucking the whore. He’d send for her every day it seemed. Close her in his bedroom and she’d report back to Terry when she left. She’d tell him how straight he seemed. And Terry would beat him accordingly.   
“Fuck it,” taking another long toke.  
When she takes it back from his hand, their fingers brush against one another. Rising a strange feeling of comfort in his chest, “thing is pretty boy,” taking her time to inhale the sweet feeling of calm, blowing her exhale towards his face gently with a soft pressing of her lips reminiscent of kissing, “everything you love will kill you one day. The booze, the pills, the dust. The fights. The boy with the hypnotic eyes,” shrugging her shoulders, eye contact unfaltering, “pick your poison. And make it count."


	7. The Fog Lifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit from Ian's perspective and the reunion in prison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk about sex baby! Let's talk about Ian and Mick, let's talk about some of the things that Ian should feel bad about...   
> Don't read it if you can't handle some sex - you've been warned.

The Fog Lifts

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” mumbled with raised eyebrows.   
Ian’s smile calling his bluff. Tough guy knows he’s fuckin’ gorgeous, standing in the shower, steam rising off his taut muscles. He’ll deny it to his grave, but he knows he’s sexy as hell. He told him barely anything real about Mexico, but he did tell him about the martial arts training. Showed him a few moves. Self defense mostly. Promised he’d show him more in an appropriate setting, whatever that means.   
Mickey’s eyes open towards Ian again, this time Ian has to look away. Community showering with a hard-on wouldn’t end well.   
————  
Kissing for what feels like hours but only seconds at the same time. Tender, yearning, slow. Making it count. Two years since he felt this man. Two years since he felt anything really.   
Finally pulling back just far enough to admire his perfect face beneath him on the bottom bunk. Walking in here was one of the most terrifying things he’s done. Acting tough, acting like nothing here could affect him. Like no one could get to him. But inside he was trembling. Seeing the blanket and pillow already on the bottom bunk, knowing he had a cellmate. Not having any idea what that would entail. Thinking he’d have to spend two years pretending to be something, and someone he’s not. Sure, he’d been in jail before. But this, federal pen, completely different ball game. There are people in here that have done unspeakable things. People that continue to do unspeakable things even behind bars. Or cinder blocks he supposed. The enclosure of this cell unnerving. Claustrophobia settling hard in his chest as he leaned against the top bunk, hanging his head, eyes closed. Gathering the strength he knew was inside of him, he knew he’d need it, and he knew he could find it. If he could just breathe.   
The sound of the cell door opening made his guts clench hard. Trying once again to gather some internal strength as it closed. Knowing his cellmate was standing behind him now. Knowing he’d have to turn to face whoever that man was. The only word that he could manage in his brain was ‘fuck’, taking a deep breath before he turned. And fell headfirst into an ocean of blue eyes. Drowning in relief, and disbelief. Tumbling in a wash of everything he hadn’t felt in two years.   
Mickey’s mouth opened. His words blurred in Ian’s ears. Now staring open mouthed at the man. He heard himself whisper, ‘holy fuck’, and watched as Mickey walked past him. His voice like an angel in his ears though the words weren’t sinking in. Was it possible this was a dream? Was it possible that Mickey Milkovich had just walked past him and laid down on the bottom bunk? Afraid to turn. Afraid to look just to see the bottom bunk empty. Just to see it was some cruel delusion his overstressed and still adjusting to meds brain had offered him.   
He blinked. He breathed. And he forced himself to turn. To see exactly what he thought he had seen. His gorgeous Mickey. Lying there with his head propped on his bent arm. Watching him with that confident smirk. That one that clearly reads ‘I know I’m sexy as fuck and you can’t resist me’.   
It’s true. It will always be true. Watching those eyes and feeling the fog lift. The fog of the last two years. Leaving Mickey at the border was the worst decision Ian had ever made in his life. This isn’t me anymore. Who the fuck was he kidding? Mickey is Ian. He is Ian’s everything. The only anchor he’s ever had in his life. The only safe place to weather a storm, usually a storm of his own making. His shelter. The only man he’s ever loved.  
I have my shit together Mick. And I have a fuckin’ boyfriend. How his own words sounded so foreign and unconvincing in his ears. Echoing the sentiments of his sister instead of finding his own way. And maybe at that particular moment that was how it seemed. He was on meds that were starting to balance out, it had been awhile since he’d had an episode of either pole. He had a job that he could make a career out of. And a boyfriend. A boyfriend who would later wonder, are you taking care of yourself? Yourself. You. Me. Completely separate entities.   
It means we take care of each other.  
“I’m sorry Mick,” barely making its way past his lips, leaning forehead to forehead. Attempting to blink back the rising tears of regret for the last two years, “I’m so sorry,” his voice shaking, “I never should have…”  
“We’ve got time for that shit later,” a knuckle meeting Ian’s chin, tilting him out of the safety he’s hidden his face in, “guard’ll be back in ‘bout an hour to open that door. ’Til then…” one eyebrow lifting suggestively.  
“Mick, I…”  
“You gonna keep cryin’ ‘bout somethin’ you can’t change, or you gonna strip and get on me?” eyebrows rising in a challenge, chewing on his lower lip.  
Every single moment between their kiss on the border and now, right now, becomes clear. Cleary a mistake. Mistake after mistake. Going off his meds and off the rails with religion, losing his job, losing his mind.   
The fog lifts. And in its absence is this man. Watching up at him with that sultry, sexy look in his eye. That one that says everything without a single word parting his lips. Leaning back into those lips. Hungry now. He’s been starving for two years and the only thing that will sate his hunger is Mickey. HIs tongue, his lips, his body beneath his hands. Tearing at each other’s jumpsuits, grasping each other’s faces as their lips meet again. Mashing, enveloping. He’ll devour Mickey if he’ll let him.   
Surroundings no longer matter. This prison will be home for the next two years, they may as well get comfortable right away. Wasting no time in stripping. Mickey tucks a blanket under the top mattress, shielding their bottom bunk from the small window in the door.  
“We can do that?”  
“Not really. But like I said, guard won’t be back for about an hour,” giving that nod. Leaning back into each other’s mouths, wandering hands. Every single inch of his skin familiar. Some scars new, wanting now to look when his fingers pass a healed gash on his abdomen. But not wanting to break the passion. Starting a kissing trail from his neck, sucking at the delicate skin but not long enough to leave any hickeys. His chest, “fuck,” when his tongue swirls around a nipple. He wants more than an hour. He wants an endless supply of time to taste and feel this man. To worship him and make him understand just how much he means to him.   
His hand dropping down Mickey’s thigh, meeting his perfectly fleshy asscheek. The smattering of scars from one drunk old lady. Mouth moving further south, feeling his incredible cock standing erect and ready. Teasing with his tongue, swirling the tip of it to the sound of a muffled grunt while his hand works towards the alter where he’ll spend the rest of his life praying.   
A tap on his shoulder forces his eyes to look towards Mick. Not backing off his cock. Grinning with eager eyes down towards Ian, handing him a lube bottle, “use the lube bitch.”  
A laugh muffled around his cock, sending shockwaves through his core with the vibrations, his eyes forcing closed again, clarifying with heavy breath, “sparingly, can’t get that shit easy ‘round here.”  
Taking the full length of Mickey’s cock down his throat while he slicks up his fingers haphazardly, his excitement growing with each quiet grunt out of Mickey’s mouth. One finger playing lazily around the rim, free hand taking Mick’s balls in a gentle grip. His own cock feeling as though it can’t handle this much longer and he’s not even been touched yet.   
Passing the threshold with the tip of one finger, “fuck Gallagher,” breathy groan. Releasing with his mouth in order to savor this warm-up session as long as possible. Kissing a trail back up Mick’s abdomen as his finger slides deeper inside. Wrapping his hand around Mickey’s cock now, rubbing gently up and down. A second finger, arching Mickey’s back off the mattress, as he expected, “goddamn Mick, you’re perfect,” softly whispered against his bare skin.  
Too choked up with pleasure to respond in any way, though if there was a response Ian was certain it’d be a middle finger in his face. Or a threat of cutting out his tongue. ‘Say that again, I’ll cut your fuckin’ tongue outta your head’.   
He’s grinning as he leans his lips back into Mickey’s. Working with both hands on his lover’s body. Realizing with their lips locked that there has never been anything that even slightly compares to this intimacy with anyone else in Ian’s life. To think of the shit he said about Mickey when he was trying to protect his broken heart, trying to convince himself that he had done the right thing in breaking up with him. Thinking of the horrible way he portrayed him to his later boyfriends, making him want to apologize once more, once more every hour for the rest of his life. But Mick’s hand has found the back of his neck, pulling his mouth closer, deeper into his kisses. Keeping him close and wordless.   
A third finger and a hard gasp against his mouth. Barely able to hold himself back. Arcing his fingers as one, tickling the exact spot he knows will produce a breathy, “fuck,” again, a shuddering strangled moan inside Ian’s mouth.  
“Ready?” leaning back now to look at his eyes.  
“Fuck yeah,” twisting as though he’s going to roll over.  
“Stay like that, right here. I want to watch you.”  
Eyebrows raising, mouth opening to no doubt tell Ian to ‘fuck off’, but he covers it too quickly with his own. Using an elbow and a knee to pin Mick’s legs open. Gently guiding himself inside. Slowly, letting Mickey get used to him and also trying to keep his own passions reigned in. Chest to chest. Face to face. It’s been too long since they’ve done this. Maybe a lifetime ago.   
Sweet, loving. Tender. Something they rarely did. Normally unable to control their flowing passion for one another. Normally in a hurried space. Or a desperate want to convince one another there wasn’t love there. But this right here, this is the start of something new. Something too powerful to hide. Something neither one of them will ever deny again.   
This right here. This is freedom. In maybe the most unusual place imaginable.   
“I love you,” stroking his cheek with his thumb and watching his gorgeous blue eyes as they come together, “and missed you. More than I can say,” lips meeting lips and staying there while they’re both too lazy and trembling with pleasure to move.


	8. Your Shitty Dad And Your Dead Mom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Mexico... and we're dropping a bomb on Ian

Your Shitty Dad and Your Dead Mom

He watched her. Watched in awe, sitting beside the wrinkled half-bent old woman. Watched as she took down opponent after opponent. Mostly male opponents. Barely breaking a sweat. Winning the night and the pot.   
The old lady kept coaching him through every match. Like he could understand anything she was saying. Turning her attention to her champion on the ride back to the complex. Complex makes it sound fancy, truth is it’s not. But lacking another word to describe it, it’s the one he’s settled on.   
He finds her late that night sitting on the steps leading into their shared room. Raising a tequila bottle to him and motioning for him to take a seat next to her. The bottle is almost empty.   
“Impressive shit tonight,” grunting towards her, lighting a cigarette.   
Eyeing him from head to toe before turning back to look out into the darkness. Not acknowledging in any way the compliment he just gave her.   
“Someone gonna tell me how this shit works yet?”  
“Fuck you’re thick.”   
Making show of adjusting his manhood in his pants, knowing she can see it in her peripheral, “so I’ve been told,” he retorts. There’s a certain brass in her voice. A strange part of him wants to make it disappear. Three weeks he’s been around her basically twenty-four-seven and knows next to nothing about her. But he knows her presence. And the weird effects it’s been having on him. He can’t name it, wouldn’t want to anyway.   
Expecting narrowed eyes and a ‘you wish’ response, he’s shocked when she wonders, “your dad’s a shit, isn’t he?” when her face turns to watch his.  
Studying her eyes, too dim in the glow of the lights spilling through windows to see what those stars are doing. He shrugs.  
“You can say it,” she urges, “it feels good. It feels fuckin’ good. Your dad’s a shit. My dad’s a shit. My dad’s such a shit,” her voice growing quieter but anger rising in the tone, “he’s such a fuckin’ shit. And so is yours, isn’t he?”  
In the long pause that follows, the silence of a desert night, there’s a pleading in her expression. A yearning to find a release. A person that can relate. That can understand. He gives in, “yeah he’s a shit. Beat my mom to death in front of me when I was seven.”  
“That’s shit,” she agrees, groping for the tequila bottle. She takes a swig, handing it back over to Mick. Watching her bare feet in the dirt, “he used to call me ‘ladybug’. ‘Make this one happy ladybug, he’s got the good stuff’. His poison was crack at the time. ‘He’s got the good stuff ladybug, make him happy tonight’. I was twelve.”  
Silence the only thing in the air between them for a long time before Mick agrees, “that’s shit.”  
Eyes falling on his, this time a half laugh parting her lips when she nods, “yeah it fuckin’ is,” snagging the tequila from him, raising it to the desert surrounding them, “to your shitty dad and your dead mom,” tipping back a shot, handing it back, “finish it. I’m passing out.”  
“Hey,” calling over his shoulder before she disappears inside, “what do you do with the money?”  
“Money,” she spits into the dirt where her footprints remain, “buy freedom.”  
“Buy freedom?”   
No response. Fuck, he might as well be speaking to the dirt half the time instead of her.   
“Fuckin’ Mexico,” grumbling to himself as he finishes the tequila and heads inside for the night.  
————  
“Who’s Lou?” his voice coming down from the top bunk like a slowly falling drop of rain.   
“Hmm?” rubbing sleep out of his eyes and trying to remember if he slept up there because he was mad, or if it was just for the space.   
“Who’s Lou?”  
“Lou?”  
“I heard you say ‘fuck, Lou’ a couple times in your sleep last night. Who is he?”  
“Maybe it was ‘fuck you’,” he tries. Grinding his palms into his eyes. Knowing this would eventually have to be told. But not ready yet to get the judgement, the disappointed looks.   
“It wasn’t.”  
“You sure firecrotch?”  
“Yes I’m sure. Who the fuck is Lou? You can tell me if you had a boyfriend. I know you weren’t chaste the whole time you were in Mexico.”  
“Chaste,” half grunting, pulling himself into a seated position. Leaning elbows to knees, watching the floor for a long moment, “she. Lou is a she. And she… she is… well she’s… fuck. She’s my wife.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me, I'll get into a little more detail about this choice later.


	9. Another Pregnant Whore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some arguing and a little vacation in the sun.

Another Pregnant Whore

“Your what? Your wife Mick? Please tell me she’s just another pregnant whore you fucked so you could convince yourself you’re straight. You’re not straight Mickey. And you didn’t learn your lesson the first time, huh? Fuckin’ wife, huh?” His feet land on the floor in front of Mickey where he’s leaning his chin on his hands. Knowing this will get long-winded. It’ll get ugly. It’ll piss him off to be judged by holier-than-thou Ian Gallagher who clearly has his shit together and knows exactly who and what he is.   
He won’t let Ian’s anger get to him. Not today. Not today of all fuckin’ days.   
————  
“My fuck, it’s hot,” trying for the umpteenth time to find a sleeping position that doesn’t have him sticking together with sweat. Turning his head to the left. She’s lying on her back. Limbs sprawled. One long leg stretched off either side of her cot. Her lean muscled legs. They’re misted with sweat. She’s wearing nothing but underwear. Those tiny shorts things. And a work-out bra of some sort.   
He watched her earlier prepare another group of women and children for the border crossing. Filling their packs with American dollars, food, water. So the complex isn’t just some training post for a fight club with some seriously fucked up rules. It’s also a freedom outpost.   
Some nights when he wakes up for a piss she’s not there. She doesn’t come back until morning. Laying out a blood stained blade on her side table. Removing boots he’s certain are covered in DNA. Her hands smeared with dried blood. He’s not certain, and he doesn’t want to know exactly what she’s doing on those nights. But he recognizes the burden she’s carrying.  
Not tonight. Tonight they’re both trying to breathe through the suffocating heat that hasn’t broken in four days. Not even at night.  
“You ever been to the beach pretty boy?” three months and she’s still not spoken his name.   
“Nope.”  
“Never?”  
“Never.”  
She sits suddenly. A wide grin breaking the usual tension in her brow, “fuckin’ get dressed then.”  
————  
“I don’t need your judgement Ian,” his tone steady, “and I won’t apologize or act like it was a mistake.”  
“You’re waiting this fuckin’ long to tell me and you’re going to say it wasn’t a mistake? Why else would you wait so long? Only reason I can think is embarrassment.”  
“Fuck,” hands meeting his face again, kneading at his closed eyes for a long moment before they open, focus rising to meet the swirling angry galaxy staring hard at him, “I love her.”  
“Love her?” repeating slowly as though he’s trying to decipher a language he doesn’t understand.  
“Yeah. Different than you. But still love.”  
“Love?”  
“Yeah. You know, that emotion that’ll kill ya eventually.”  
————  
She broke into a luggage cart at one resort. Lifted two bags with luggage tags. Then they strolled in with the crowd getting off a bus at the next resort. She’s leaning into the counter, feigning exhaustion though she snorted enough coke on the drive here to keep her awake for a week, slowly repeating the words of the woman behind the counter, “we don’t have a reservation here,” a heavy sigh, “what does even mean? I know I booked here,” her lip trembling as her eyes fill, “it was all supposed to be a surprise for my husband,” motioning towards Mickey, “a second honeymoon of sorts. It’s only been two years since the first one, but we’re…” her voice breaks off and she lifts her hand to her nose, sniffling. Dropping her gaze as she admits, swallowing tears, “we’ve been trying to have a baby. And it’s not working,” sobbing now, “it’s not working and I just thought. I thought maybe if we could…” she waves her hand in the air between them, “oh Lord above, look at me,” wiping dramatically at her cheeks, “it’s no wonder he isn’t turned on by me. I’m a mess…”  
The face of the woman behind the counter is quickly changing from slight annoyance to complete empathy. Reaching out to take her hand when it rises once more, “don’t cry Mrs Jones. We’ll get you situated. I’m sure you’re in the computer somewhere. It’s just a new system. Please let me make you comfortable at the bar while you wait.”  
“The pool,” she gasps, half into her hand that’s hiding her face, “the pool please. We’ll wait at the pool.”  
“Of course, of course.”  
“Impressive,” he grins towards her when they’ve settled into lounge chairs in the glow of the rising sun, sipping mimosas, waiting to be ushered to their room that is no doubt upgraded from their original reservation.  
She swallows her mimosa in one gulp, “and fuck me if they don’t comp us for two extra nights.”  
“I mean I could try, but I make no promises.”  
Eyes sparked with mischief, “It’ll be easy to get you laid ‘round here.”  
“Not if if means getting another Q-tip up my cock.”  
Her teasing retort stopped by the resort manager approaching, “Mr and Mrs Jones, we are so sorry for the misunderstanding. Your room is ready, please follow me, and please enjoy an extra two nights on top of your original three.”  
“You’re too kind,” she smiles, a convincing air of upper class American about her. Reaching for Mickey’s hand that he’s been keeping mostly in his pockets to hide his tattoos. Slipping her fingers between his, “come my love, let’s change out of these wretched travel rags and get to the spa to relax and clean up. First class just isn’t what is used to be, is it?”  
Gasping theatrically when the manager pushes the door of the honeymoon suite open. Revealing some kind of romantic shit that people are supposed to get all gooey about. She squeezes Mickey’s hand tight, bringing it to her lips as the perfectly faked glee starts to wear a little around the edges. Covering her snicker with his hand.  
His turn to pick up the act as she slowly unravels beside him. He kisses her bare shoulder, it is at his mouth height. She’s fuckin’ tall. Or maybe Mick’s just short. But either way, he only has to tilt his chin just slightly to kiss her shoulder. A strange longing bolts through his body when he inhales her. Shaking it off quickly to look at the man standing in front of them while the manager makes his apologies once more and exits.  
“Hello, welcome. My name is Pablo,” the small, narrow dark skinned, dark eyed young man wearing a professional smile tells them, “I’ll be your butler,” his accent is thinned out, easy to understand, “should you need anything, you just pick up the phone,” motioning to the bedside table, “ask for Pablo. It would be my pleasure to book your day at the spa. I’ve left a pamphlet with excursions right there next to the phone. You call me when you’ve decided what you’d like to do. I’ve drawn a bath,” his hand sweeps towards the bathroom door, “please take your time to relax. And please do not hesitate to call me when you’re ready.”  
“Oh Pablo,” she barely keeps her laughter at bay, but manages to swallow it back down, “we’d love to book a spa day this afternoon. Full body massages on the cabana. Chilled champagne. Your best, and don’t be holding back on me,” squeezing Mickey’s hand again.  
He removes a bill from his pocket, not even checking to see what denomination it is, plastering it to Pablo’s palm on his way out, “thank you Pablo. Gracias. Mucho gracias,” being certain to draw out a very American sounding condescension in his tone.   
The door is barely latched when she breaks into laughter, “Pablo my ass. His name is Nick and he grew up in Brownsville. He has to fake his watered down Mexican accent to get better tips. And he takes zero pleasure in drawing baths for spoiled tourists. He does, however, take plenty of pleasure in a European uncut dick in his ass. You ever live like a king before?”  
He’s not certain if she realizes his hand is still grasped in her own. He shakes his head, unable to stifle his own smile reflecting back at hers.  
“Well, my love, let’s live like fuckin’ kings.”


	10. Learning To Swim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some trust beginning to root between Mickey and Lou. Is this a break-up? Or just another bump in a seriously bumpy road? Also a seed being planted for Mickey's ticket home.

Learning To Swim

Sitting on the ledge of the pool. A skimpy bikini and a wide brimmed sunhat from the stolen luggage. Leaning lazily on the palms of her hands, face aimed skyward as her legs rise and fall rhythmically in the chlorinated water. He stands in the waist deep water taking the opportunity to watch her. In an unguarded state she’s more beautiful than he realized. She’s like art or some shit. He’s noticed the scars on her body before. The most identifiable would be the track marks in her arms. They look old, but he’s not asked. She doesn’t try to hide them, it just seems like prying into her life would be dangerous.  
Her face tilts suddenly. Leveling him with a glare that clearly reads ‘don’t fuckin’ gawk at me’. Smiling but not dropping the eye contact just yet. His body still feels like Jell-o from the massage earlier. His head bubbly from champagne. Living like kings ain’t bad yet.  
She slips into the water, planting herself between him and the pool wall. Her arms resting loosely around his shoulders, “what do ya think love? Shall we find you a butt buddy? How you like ‘em? Aside from ginger and guano?”  
“Guano?”  
“Uh, bat shit.”  
“How do you even know…”  
“All gingers are bat shit. One look at those eyes and he’s a clear unsteady. An unsteady ginger is a completely different level of guano.”  
“You looked at one picture one time.”  
“All it takes love,” she smiles boldly at him. Sliding down the wall enough to be at eye level, letting her legs rest comfortably around his hips. They’ve been near plenty of times. Every day. The training requires a lot of being wrapped around each other. So this isn’t new, the feel of her body. The closeness of her face. But it’s different. It’s softer, well, she’s not beating the shit out of him, so of course it is. She did admit begrudgingly that he’s a quick learner. He’s been back in the fights a few times. Never making it to final rounds, but not failing too miserably. The auctions after are something he’ll never get used to, or make sense of in his own head. These rich stupid fucks bidding on a fighter for a night or two for their own personal use. So far he’s had three escort jobs and a some weird old artist painting nudes. Nothing ending in anything shocking. Keeping his fingers bandaged to cover the tattoos is a pretty legitimate thing for someone with bruised and split knuckles.  
“Your six pretty boy,” tipping her head in the direction of a good looking older man.  
“Fuck no.”  
“Not a worshipper of the silver fox?”  
“No.”  
“Alright, I can’t be a good wingman if I don’t know what we’re lookin’ for.”  
He shrugs, watching her eyes, wondering how much is necessary to spill and how much she’ll conclude on her own.  
“Tall? Thin? Pretty-eyed?”  
“Check, check, and check.”  
“Top or bottom?”  
“I prefer to bottom, but it’s gotta be more than just a one night kind of a thing for that.”  
“Really?” eyebrows rising in surprise. If anyone’s brow game can compare to Mickey’s own, it’s hers.  
His eyebrows raised when he nods, a silent dare to make a bitch joke.  
“Hmm,” watching him without judgment in her expression, maybe mild confusion.  
Finding himself propping his knee under her butt to support her positioning on him, crouching down in the water until he’s shoulder deep. Silence as she contemplates his statement, he turns the tables, “you said you don’t much enjoy a real cock. You a lesbian?”  
Head shaking slowly, amusement sparkling in her eyes.  
“So you don’t like sex at all, or what?”  
Pressing her lips together firmly, taking a moment to debate how honest she can be with this man she’s spent nearly every waking hour with for three months. She’s observed and gathered her own thoughts about him, he seems trustworthy, he seems like someone who would die for those few lucky ones he loves. Finally she responds slowly and unemotionally, “I’ve never had consensual sex with a man. Been traded, sold, and raped. There was a pleasure girl once, knew how to swirl that tongue, but I can’t say I was attracted to her.”  
Not knowing how to respond. Knowing she doesn’t want pity or sympathy. The galaxy floating in the light blue of her eyes, it’s calm. Peaceful and easy. She’s made her surrender to the life she leads. The life she was forced to lead from an early age.  
“So what is sex anyway?” she wonders quietly, “a tool? A power move? A passionate night with a stranger? A token of love and affection? Procreation? A human desire to not be alone in the end? Love? What is love? An emotion that makes sane humans act insane. Something that blinds you to the world around you. Something that mutes the bad and amplifies the good. Makes you feel wonderful and disastrous at once. An emotion that will kill you in the end. And all we truly have in the end is ourselves. Maybe it’s all we truly need.”  
He has no idea where to begin. Or where to end. Supposing he’d never thought of it as anything more than a physical desire when he was young. Realizing with Ian what it meant to make love. Realizing through his father what it meant as a power move. Procreation with a Russian whore.  
And here he is. Counting on himself. And this woman. This woman who is wrapped around his body, snaking her way into his brain. He’s gaining a true appreciation for her. A mentor, a training partner, forcing him to think of things in ways he’s never before. And a survivor. A true survivor.  
“C’mon,” tilting her head to the deep end, “let’s swim pretty boy.”  
“I can’t.”  
“Yeah you can. Everybody can. We swam before we breathed. It’s our nature.”  
————  
“So yeah, maybe should’ve told ya before.”  
“Just a piece of paper Mick?” his arms crossed over his chest, anger still flared in his eyes while he studies Mickey’s face.  
“No,” answering honestly, “not at all.”  
“So what does that make me? A sidepiece? I’ve spent the last year in here with you, dreaming about our lives after this. How hard it will be for the year I’ll be out before you. How much I’ll miss you, but I’ll wait this time. I’ll wait. Because I love you. And you only. I’ll get out and get started on a normal life. An honest life. I’ll wait. But now…” his voice trails off, breaking a little at the edges. Eyes shifting away from Mickey to watch the cinder blocks around them, “you’re an asshole.”  
“I’m an asshole?” trying so hard to bite his anger, “I’m an asshole?! I am?!” hands clenching into fists at his sides, voice rising in volume, eyebrows rising to the arc of his patience, “I’m the fuckin’ asshole, huh? All I’ve done for you,” disbelief settling into his voice, into his chest, “all I’ve done for you. And I’m the asshole. All the times I waited for you, and loved you, and protected you. I’m the asshole? How many times you cheat on me Ian? How many times you lie to me? Actually, you know what?” getting to his feet, stopping face to face, “do whatever you want Ian. Fuck all the twinks in this joint, all your disciples that think your cum has healing powers or some shit. I don’t care anymore. I’m done.”  
————  
“Struck out today, but tomorrow’s a new one,” she flops back on the bed that smells of lavender. She’s naked. Has been since she stepped out of the shower after the evening at the pool. It’s not a strange thing to see her naked. She usually dresses and undresses freely in front of him at the complex. In turn he does the same. He was stark naked when they met, why bother getting bashful now?  
“You didn’t tell me though, what are we lookin for?” rolling onto her stomach, propping her chin on her hand and watching him towel dry himself.  
He shrugs, “I should be so horny I’d take anything, but…”  
“You lookin’ for a replacement? You ain’t gonna find one.”  
“No,” he sighs, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, “that part of my life is over.”  
“What is your life? From here forward?”  
“I dunno.”  
“Gonna run forever?”  
“Travel the world with fake passports? Stealing people’s shit and living off their misfortune?”  
“I’m you, I find an angle. Everyone has an angle ‘round here. You could play a cartel. Could be dangerous. But that’ll be your easiest access to a fed. Ya know Marco?”  
“Chrome dome, thick chest?”  
“Yah. He’s an undercover.”  
“Huh?”  
“Gonna take him years to get in. He’s playin’ the wrong angles. You on the other hand, you know your drugs. You know how to intimidate. These fucks, they’re always lookin’ for foot soldiers. ‘Course the foot soldiers are the ones that need replacin’ so often ‘cause they shoot ‘em in the fuckin’ head when they piss ‘em off,” she chews thoughtfully on her lower lip, “we’ll iron it out a bit. But I’m you, I start thinkin’ about my meal ticket. Mexico is Mexico pretty boy. Won’t ever be any different ‘round here. You’re Chicago. It’s in your bones. It’s home. No matter how many years it takes to get back.”  
“You sayin’ I should get in with a cartel just to snitch my way back to Chicago?”  
“Not snitch. Snitching would involve loyalty. No such thing as loyalty with the Alvarez boys. They’re loyal to money and power. That’s all. They’d kill their own mothers if it meant a dollar.”  
“Why haven’t you done it then?”  
“I got nothin’ to go back for. That’s the difference between you and me pretty boy. You got Chicago. I got nowhere.”  
————  
His hands are shaking at his sides. What he just said, it was mostly out of anger and hurt. Years of hidden resentments. He’s not done. He’ll never be done. He’s not a quitter. But he needs Ian to think that right now. He can’t just let him walk all over him all the time. Sure, a certain amount of behavior for the rest of his life can be blamed on his disorder. There will be times when the medication fails or he doesn’t take it. The blowjob a few months ago that he didn’t think Mickey knew about, Mickey will shrug it off eventually. But for now he’s going to make him sweat it out.  
He’s not going to look at him. Looking at him will make his resolve falter. Love is pain. It will always be pain. And he’s willing to take the pain of Ian’s disorder if it means having Ian. But he’s not willing to be a doormat about it.  
Mexico was the first time he’d witnessed true unconditional love. His understanding of it has changed, his feelings for Ian have changed. And his comfort once again in his own skin has changed.  
————  
“Just relax,” her voice soft, falling down on him like a gentle mist, “lean into it,” her hands are on his lower back. Mostly holding him up in the water as he tries his hardest to do what she’s saying, “lean in and feel the water leaning back.”  
“The fuck’s that s’posed to mean?” his feet land on the bottom of the pool, struggling to understand what floating has to do with swimming.  
Sighing with exasperation, her hand rising to push her hair back, “trust me?” one eyebrow arcing.  
“I dunno. I, well, I guess.”  
A smirk tugs at the corners of her lips, “I want ya dead I’d snap your neck in training. Had multiple opportunities for it. You really think I’d let ya drown?”  
“Put it that way…”  
“Learning how to swim,” she grins, “it’s a lot less dangerous than the Chicago streets, but it’s got the world’s prettiest thug shakin’ in his shorts.”  
————  
Door’s going to open any moment for breakfast. He refuses to look back at Ian. He can hear him moving from time to time, wiping his face. The way he’s breathing he’s either crying or fighting like hell not to.  
A sudden clenching in his stomach as the cell door squeals open. Right on time. But it feels different this time. It feels…  
He doesn’t have time to think. Only time to block his face and neck from the incoming assault, “Alvarez sends his regards,” growled into his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wanted a positive influence in Mickey's life but I still wanted her to be someone that was rough and kind of mysterious, someone he could feel at ease with but also ask some hard questions and make him truly think about some of his choices without judging or pushing. I wanted someone very different from Ian. Maybe to give him the space to come to terms with their relationship and whether it's something he wants in the end.


	11. A Real Shiv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like I'd leave that hanging for long!

A Real Shiv

“I don’t care anymore. I’m done,” his gorgeous eyes looking directly into Ian’s with confidence and clarity.   
He’s speechless. His mind turning into a jumbled mess of words and sounds. All of the times he’s cheated, lied, and disrespected the man he loves coming at him in snapshots in his closed eyelids. And all the times their relationship has ended before, it was he who walked away. Not Mickey. His breath shakes, a tear escapes him and he wipes at it.   
I’m done. It’s repeating in his ears as he opens his eyes. Gaze landing on the back of Mickey’s neck. The neck he loves burying his nose in. The scent that has given him so much comfort locked in this cell. The nights he wakes wondering where he is, that scent is enough to ground him before panic and delusion can muddle him in the waking world.   
As the door squeals open he turns his back to it. Knowing he needs to gain some control over himself before he can face anyone outside.   
Through the blur that’s invaded his skull he barely hears a low whispered warning, “Alvarez sends his regards.”  
Turning in time to see an inmate he doesn’t recognize rushing at Mickey. Mickey’s hands come up to guard his face. And he jolts forwards into the guy. Meeting him with a hard kick to the knee. It’s blurry and whirling in front of Ian. He hears himself hollering, “guard!”  
He feels himself rushing towards where Mickey seems to have gotten the upper hand. Spilling out of the cell. There’s blood. Soaking through his yellow jumpsuit. On the other guy’s face and hands.   
He doesn’t jump in. Not now that he sees Mickey is clearly controlling the situation. He only reaches for Mick when he starts to worry he’ll kill the guy. Not that the guy doesn’t deserve it. But the last thing he needs is for Mickey’s sentence to be lengthened.   
Wrapping both arms around him, pulling back with all he’s worth, “that’s enough,” against the back of Mick’s head, “that’s enough,” louder now.   
Three guards who have been shoving their way through the crowd finally reach the scuffle. Hollering for everyone to return to their cells, the alarms and lights are going off. The noises and lights filtering slowly into Ian’s senses.   
Guards taking both Mickey and his attacker. Shoving Ian backwards into their cell. The door slams shut. But he hears Mickey’s pretty mouth through the hustling and shouting, his voice rising above everything else, “Alvarez wants send regards he can get down on his knees and suck my fuckin’ cock! Come at me with a real shiv next time! Make it worth my time bitch!”  
Sounds like Mickey’s fine, but Ian’s hands are shaking when he sits on the bottom bunk. Shaking from his words earlier. And the sight of blood on his hands. He only touched Mick. A sick feeling rising in his stomach. He’s running off adrenaline, but when it wears off, he could be in worse shape than he looked.   
“Fuck,” getting back to his feet. Walking to the door to watch through the window. The tiny window. There’s a pool of blood on the floor. Footsteps tracked through it.   
Overwhelming noise from the other inmates, pissed about being locked down right before a meal. The banging of guards’ batons on the cell doors. Hollering. Shouting. There are whistles and insults being thrown.   
“I need my meds,” he gasps with a dry mouth when a guard gets close, “I need my meds. It’s time for my meds. I can’t get off schedule. I need my meds.”  
“Calm down Gallagher,” he stops in front of the window, “gotta clean this mess up before we can let ya out.”  
“I can’t get off schedule with my meds,” he insists. It’s an exaggeration but Owen doesn’t need to know that, “I can’t get off schedule. You really want a bipolar head case getting out of control around here right now when everyone is already on edge? You want to…”  
“Christ Gallagher,” under his breath. As guards go, Owen is a good one. Shaking his head to himself as he unlocks the door, “come on, don’t step in the blood princess.”  
Once in the infirmary, he’s shoved towards a chair, “sit. You move, I cuff you,” Owen warns as he enters his code into the system.   
Sitting in intake he takes a deep breath as he hears Mick’s voice still spouting off through the doors. A relieved smile rises on his face. Tilting his head back against the wall to listen to his string of cuss words and threats. Relaxing at the sound of his man’s fire, knowing it’ll take Owen some time to get the correct personnel when there’s just been a scuffle and two incoming patients.   
He feels calm by the time they leave the infirmary. Knowing Mick is fine by the things he overheard. He doesn’t lay eyes on him again until he’s escorted back to their cell right before light’s out. He doesn’t hold himself back, even though Mickey’s words are still echoing in his head. I don’t care anymore. I’m done.   
Rushing towards him as soon as the door is locked. Taking his face in his hands to scan over a black eye. Moving to his arms and hands next. A few cuts from the initial attack on his forearms. His knuckles split and swollen. He’s not overthinking right now. Only wanting to see the wounds for himself, make sure they’re properly cleaned and cared for. He pops the buttons on his jumpsuit open quickly, peeling it down to check Mick’s abdomen. Two stabs that are bandaged. He peels the tape back as gently as possible, the stitches are done nicely. Twelve between the two. Pressing the covering back down over the wounds he sits back on his heels and takes a deep breath. Relief rolling over him, “fuck, Mick,” shaking out of his mouth as tears rise. Blinking hard, trying to stifle it. Mick’s hand makes contact with the top of his head. Gently stroking through his hair as he walks past him to lie down on his bunk.   
“Gonna take a lot more than that to take me down,” he reminds Ian as he situates for the night.   
Knowing he’s not welcome to join him, he slowly makes his way to his own bunk. Lying on his back. Head buzzing with all the events of the day, unable to quiet the nagging reality, knowing he’ll lie awake up here all night. Listening to Mickey breathe. Not knowing if they’ll be able to move past this. Or if he was sincere, if he truly meant he was done. A few more tears escape him at the thought of never smelling Mickey’s neck again. Of never holding him close or staring into his gorgeous eyes. A waterfall now cascading down his temples into his hair. Trying to keep himself quiet. Stifling any sobs that could keep Mickey awake. His body needs rest. Whether he’ll admit it or not.   
A heavy sigh as he re-situates himself underneath Ian, “goddamnit firecrotch,” grunting before he appears in Ian’s line of sight. Making his way to Ian’s bunk. He slides in next to him. Cradling Ian’s head in the crook of his arm, hand resting gently on his temple as he kisses the top of his head.  
Wiping the tears off his face, his hands grip Mickey’s forearms, “sorry Mick. I’m so sorry.”  
“Yeah me too,” breathing softly while his body seems to melt around Ian’s. Finding the comfort he needs but will never admit to needing. Providing the comfort Ian needs. And wants. In this cell. In the world beyond this cell. Into the next lifetime if he can prove himself worthy.


	12. Blood, Sweat, And Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small introduction to the brutality of the cartel.

Blood, Sweat, and Murder

He wakes to the faraway sound of gunfire. Not a strange thing in his life. Back in Chicago. Rubbing a little fiercely at his eyes when he realizes this ain’t Chicago. And it is strange to wake to gunshots ‘round here. Scanning the cot across the small room. It’s empty. Made up like it was never slept in. Groggy and confused, trying to remember what night it is. The throbbing in his head. Aching muscles and bruised tissues. Fight night was last night. HIs week on. Lou’s week off. He won the night. First time. It was sweet. The pot was sweet. He felt high as a kite when he crawled into his bed for the night and it wasn’t just from the weed. But where is Lou? Wasn’t she right there across from him when he closed his eyes?  
He groans, his senses starting to awaken at a heightened pace when he hears more gunshots. A scream of inhuman agony echoing across the desert night. Reverberating in his bones. He jolts to his feet, yanking on the nearest pair of pants and rushing out the door. HIs eyes are met by flames at the base of the hill. The safe haven. The freedom outpost.   
Shouting, whooping echoing. Shadowy figures that he has trouble making out. Even at full speed he’s too slow to get there on time. The trucks pull away leaving a cloud of dust rising in the night behind them. Swirling to meet the smoke of the flames still devouring the freedom outpost. It was full. It was full of women and children. Displaced and mistreated. They were leaving in the morning. Bound for the border.   
He falls to his knees, hands finding the bent old woman’s bony shoulder-blades, “what happened Rocky?”  
“Se la llevaron,” pointing at the trucks that are bobbing their way down toward town, “se la llevaron,” her gnarled finger hanging in the air.   
“Shit,” he has no idea what she just said. He’s picked up a few words, a few phrases. Asking Lou the other day to finally teach him something. It didn’t seem important since everyone here can understand what he’s saying. He just can’t understand what they’re saying.   
A coughing, hacking Martin appears through the smoke enveloping the building. Mickey gains enough sense to rush over for assistance. Taking the old man’s elbow, leading him further from the overbearing heat, “please tell me the building was empty,” hoping against all odds that the group had left earlier than planned, “please tell me they’re gone.”  
“Si, ido,” he nods solemnly, face tilted toward the dirt, “but not the border mi hijo,” Martin falls between Spanish and English all the time when he talks to Mick. This time he wishes the English had never come out.  
————  
“Mick,” his voice sounds like it’s millions of miles away, “Mick, you’re okay. Mickey,” fog clearing enough to recognize it’s Ian’s voice, “Mickey, you’re okay,” feeling his hands gently rubbing his arms, “it’s me. I’m here, you’re here. Breathe, take a deep breath. You’re okay.”  
Reality coming at him from the inside out. Instead of remaining calm, he jolts out of bed. Forgetting he had been on the top bunk, he lands hard on the floor. Losing his footing, crashing to his hands and knees. Ian’s next to him immediately, rubbing his back and cooing at him to breathe, to stay calm.   
He can feel the sweat trickling down his back in a stream. Beaded at his forehead. Gasping for air, the cement under him coming into focus quickly before blurring again. The breath catching in his throat and the words tumbling past it, “they murdered them. All of them. The came in the middle of the night. They shot some, let some burn alive. Women and children. Innocent human beings. Every single one of them. All they wanted was freedom,” his voice cuts off in his chest.   
————  
It’s the third night. Rocky and Martin insisted they not try to go after Lou. It would be much worse if they went after her. The Alvarez boys would tire of her, they’d return her alive. No one ‘round here would kill a prize fighter.  
Martin sat out on the steps with Mick in silence for a long while that night. Watching the road. Hoping for headlights. Or for a figure walking in the darkness. Or something. Anything. Before he left, he reached out to pat Mick’s leg, told him certainly, “she’s been here before mi hijo. Ella es una luchadora,” with a reassuring nod before he took his leave.   
Last time Doc had been by he’d left Mickey with some sleeping pills. Tonight he took one. Unable to sleep the last two nights. Having made his mind up after Martin left, he’d need some sleep tonight. Because if she wasn’t back tomorrow he’d go for her. No matter the consequences. He wasn’t dumb. He was always watching, always keeping his eyes open, gathering whatever information he could in his mind about the geography of the area. About the people. Every time they left the complex he was flooding his memory with everything he could possibly decipher from the place he was now a part of. He could find her. He would find her.   
When his eyes open in the early morning light they immediately look towards her cot. Blinking hard at the sight of the figure on it. Belly down. Face aimed away from him. Left arm sprawled off the side. He takes in the bruised knuckles. Fingernails broken off. Rope burned wrist. Her right hand is in a cast. Resting on the pillow beside her. Doc must have been here already.   
His eyes stop wandering momentarily, trying to prepare himself for the possibilities of what else there is. Hoping his imagination is worse than reality. The white sheet that’s pulled up to her waist is splotched randomly with blood.   
He sits up. Swallowing hard. Tingling in the pit of his stomach. The back of his throat burning.   
Marks on her back. Angry and bloody, “shit,” escapes his mouth without him giving it permission.  
“Never seen what a whip will do to bare flesh?” she wonders, void of emotion.  
“No,” he admits. Rubbing his hands on his face, palms meeting his eyes as he tries to force back emotions rising that he can’t decipher. He can’t begin to decipher, “Lou, I’m…”  
“Don’t,” she interrupts, “we don’t speak of this. Ever.”  
————  
“I’m not a snitch,” he avers for the first time since he rolled on the cartel, “I’m not. Something had to stop them. Somebody had to do something to stop them.”  
Ian’s hands have stopped moving on his back, they’ve remained there. Over the fabric of his jumpsuit. The fabric separating Ian’s hands from the same scars that are on his back. He knew the first time Ian ran a finger across one of them that he’d have to come clean eventually. But Ian didn’t have the nerve to ask about them right away. It took a few weeks before he did. And Mickey just shrugged him off with a ‘don’t worry ‘bout it’.   
But now he knows. He’s put some pieces together. And now he’s leaning in, slowly. He’s leaning his face against Mickey’s back. Exactly the place he knows these scars to be. Mickey can feel his breath, warm, through his jumpsuit.   
————  
They haven’t spoken. She’s barely moved. She gets up to use the bathroom. When he tries to help her she shoots daggers with her dulled eyes. Rocky sits quietly in a chair she’s set up at the head of her bed. She’s not left during the days. She’s tried to feed her. But so far all she can convince her to do is hydrate.   
She shoes Mickey out for training. During which time she helps Lou clean herself. The bruises all over her thighs have not escaped his attention. Flaring an anger and helplessness inside of him that he’d felt often throughout the years that he’d heard his old man stumbling into his sister’s room at night.   
After expending his anger on the punching bag in the yard for what feels like hours, watching the sun set from the post he’s taken on the mats. He decides helpless is not something he needs to be anymore. Not this time. She planted the seed in his head a couple months ago at that resort. Now the cartel themselves had forced it to sprout.


	13. Just Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doing a favor for a friend.  
> Warning: If you don't care to explore Mickey's sexuality with me - kick rocks now! See my notes if you'd like, thank you for coming this far with me if you do choose to leave now maybe I'll see you on future works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here in lies the beauty of fiction - every person has their own unique interpretation of it. The blank spaces are left blank by every creator of every form of art for the viewers and readers to fill in themselves.   
> I'm taking some liberties of exploring Mickey's sexuality. To me he was never %100 percent gay like Ian was. In the storylines presented by the writers of the show, he was seen with plenty of women, granted, not fully enjoying himself but enough so to do the deed. And maybe in the stuff we never saw, maybe he was not enjoying himself with ANYONE who wasn't Ian. So what would happen if Mickey had a consensual enjoyable experience with another person who happened to be a woman?   
> Well, let's explore!

Just Business

“Mickey?” her voice quiet, apprehensive in the darkness of their room.  
His attention piqued immediately. It’s the first time she’s said his name, “Lou?”   
She rolls to her side to face his direction as he does the same. It’s been two weeks she’s been back. Only a few days that she’s seemed human again. Bruises starting to fade, emotions starting to dull. Broken pieces starting to rearrange themselves inside of her, “you ever sleep with women?”  
He wants to scoff at the question but she clarifies, “voluntarily.”  
He’s told her more about his past than he ever intended. But she’s also the only person he’s spent this kind of time with, maybe ever in his life, she’s the only person he’s ever been completely open with about who he is and what made him that way. In turn he’s learned things about her that she never intended on sharing. Finally he admits, “I’ve slept with more women than men.”  
“Just business?”  
“I dunno. Maybe.”  
“You ever turned on by women?”  
“I… well,” he stammers, not having any idea how to answer that. He’s been turned on intellectually and emotionally by the woman he’s looking at right now. Physically? Maybe, little tingles here and there, little moments of eye contact that linger long enough to see her spinning galaxy punctured by a million stars, “yeah,” he sighs.  
“Could you have sex with me?” timid, a new thing for her.  
“Could or would?”  
“Maybe both?” her eyebrows are raised, “I mean you could close your eyes and pretend…”  
“Yeah,” he interrupts. He hasn’t been laid in months. Which hasn’t really mattered that much. The training, the fights have been physically exhausting. Jerking off even a daunting prospect some nights, “like now? I don’t got rubbers.”  
She half snorts, “got the good ol’ swab the other day from Doc. I’m free and clean,” eying each other from across the room for a long moment, “I just don’t want,” she clears her throat, “I don’t want that shit to linger, ya know? The shit they did. It just seems the longer it’s the last sexual encounter I’ve had, seems like it’s…”  
“You want to use my gay cock as an eraser?”   
“Well maybe it’s your ass that’s gay. Maybe your cock is straight enough to fuck the rape out of me,” she half laughs, the scenario strange. One that should probably be uncomfortable, but somehow isn’t, “besides it’s easier to ask you than to troll around town. And I know you’re acquainted with Doc’s Q-tips, so I won’t be picking up some fuckin’ VD.”  
Taking a moment to consider this. How this could effect both of them. Their relationship with one another. Watching her mesmerizing eyes while she waits, certainly having considered all of these things herself before asking. And if she’s right, if a sexual encounter can erase a previous one, then it’s about time he erase Ian. That’s been lingering for far too long. Certainly Ian has had plenty of partners since they hooked up last.   
She is beautiful. He knew that the moment he laid eyes on her. Intriguing. Her personality is complicated but in a way Mickey can dig into. Taking time to peel back the layers on her has been equally horrifying and comforting. There has been plenty of shared laughter. Shared pain. And shared tequila. Not tonight. They’re both sober as the day they were born. Well, probably more sober. Doubting either one of them was off the substances at birth.   
“You can say no,” she whispers. But when she blinks he rises. Coming towards her without hesitation.  
————  
“So where is she then?” Ian wonders, his cheek resting on Mickey’s chest in the darkness of their cell, “your wife?”  
A burdened breath parting his lips, fingers stroking his ginger’s hair, “I don’t know.”


	14. Not Far Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tidbit from Lou's perspective.

Not Far Enough

She wakes suddenly with the realization that she’s just spent the night sleeping to the gentle rhythm of his heart beating against her ear. This wasn’t her intention. Embarrassment rising at the memory of how desperate she must have seemed to even ask such a thing. How needy she must have felt to fall asleep with him after the act.   
She slides away from his warm body slowly. Accomplishing her intention of not waking him. Grabbing her pile of work-out clothes and slipping through the door. Out in the fresh desert air she gasps for breath. A million things swirling in her mind. Muddled together in flashes of heavy breath, naked skin, and the sweet release of a ghost that would have continued to haunt her.   
Nothing magical happened. There was no time stoppage. No fireworks or declarations of love. She was unable to close her eyes. Keeping the image of him clear, fear of seeing someone she didn’t want to see in her closed eyelids. Or a hundred someones.   
She supposed if that was how consensual sex felt, it just wasn’t that bad. He was sweet. Touching her gently. Talking to her when she seemed uncomfortable. She had shoved his face away when he tried to kiss her. It was for her own protection. She couldn’t look at his ocean eyes and allow his beautiful lips to press into her own. They were already walking a slippery slope, neither one of them needed fire.  
She starts a slow jog. Knowing she should take it easy. Let herself completely heal before getting back into her normal routine. She also knows the only way she’ll sort out the events of the last three weeks will be to get out of her head. Out of her head an into her body. Her body that is stronger than her head ever will be.   
Mickey, Raquel and Martin did a good job of hiding the burned out remains of the freedom outpost. But no amount of dirt can bury the images in her brain. Nothing can bury the sounds. As she nears the freshly made crosses along the ridge she takes off at a sprint. Faster, further. Bare feet pounding the desert beneath her. Faster, further. Until her breath feels like fire in her throat. Faster, further. Until her head is light and her legs heavy. Never fast or far enough. It will never be fast or far enough. Some demons cannot be outrun. Some demons will linger forever. Every time she cuts the head off, another one only grows in its place.


	15. A Label, A Dress, And A Piano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas in Mexico
> 
> WARNING AGAIN: If you don't care to explore Mickey's sexuality then get lost, thanks for reading.
> 
> BECAUSE WHO THE FUCK READS LABELS ANYWAY!

A Label, A Dress, and A Piano

“So we gonna fuck again or what?”   
“Huh?” her head turns quickly towards where he’s sitting on his cot watching her.  
She’s been avoiding him all day. And it’s pissing him off, “say no if ya want. Your loss. Just offerin’,” he figures he can at least do it right if she wants it. He was absolutely certain she didn’t get off last night. And kinda felt bad about it. He was far too used to meaningless friction and hurried endgames to leave her without something worth having.   
He even ignored his full bladder for about two hours while she slept on his chest. It felt good. A lot of it did. It felt good to be close to someone. To smell and touch and feel. The only time he’s had sex with a woman when he wasn’t trying to prove to himself he was straight. He had no problem getting turned on last night.   
She watches him for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip, “you want to?”  
“Yeah,” he answers honestly. Then shrugs, “maybe I’m bi.”  
“By what? The window? The wall? The…”  
“Bisexual,” he responds with a smirk.  
“Oh fuck that. Why we gotta be so obsessed with a label for everything? Why you gotta be gay and I gotta be straight? You’re this and I’m that. I can’t get to know anyone without knowing what they are. Like I need a fuckin’ tag on a person to know anything ‘bout ‘em. Like I don’t give a fuck how you take your coffee, but I care what you’re sleepin’ with? Fuckin’ society always tellin’ us we need to fit into a certain column to know who the fuck we are. You wanna fuck somebody. They wanna fuck you. Then just fuckin’ do it. Who gives a…”  
He yanks her shorts off quickly, pressing her down on her cot. Her words cut off by the heat of his mouth on her thigh. HIs hand on her ass as his mouth moves towards the center of her. He’s eaten enough ass in his life, pussy can’t be that much different. It ain’t bad at all. Silky. When his tongue finds a spot that makes her back arch he lingers. One hand on her ass, the other sliding under her bra. Finding a nipple and gently rubbing it between his fingers.   
Her hand comes down hard on the top of his head, grasping a handful of hair as she gasps, “oh fuck, dick now. Right now.”  
He’s glad to oblige. Immediately when he presses into her she takes a harsh inhale, her fingers pressing indents into his shoulder. Her entire body wrapping tight around him with a shudder. Exposing her neck as her head arches back. He knows not to kiss her lips. The palm he received to the face last night was a pretty good indicator. So instead he buries his lips in her neck.   
Her hips buck against his as she releases a long exhale, another shudder racing through her body and he’s spent. That quickly. Letting his weight down on her to take a deep breath of her flesh.   
“Sorry,” she gasps, “I’m so sorry. That was…”  
“Sexy as fuck,” he interrupts, sensing she’s about to apologize for having an orgasm. He doesn’t want to hear it. Not the apology that is, “want another?” pressing his lips against her neck again. Hands starting to wander the warm flesh of her legs.   
He feels her nod against the top of his head. And their bodies don’t part again until the sun is painting the sky in shades of morning.  
————  
“So are you bisexual now? Or what? How does that work?”   
“Jesus Christ Ian,” it’s been weeks since he told him about his wife. And he still can’t figure out how he wants to categorize Mick, “I’m me. Same one you’ve always known.”  
Pressing his lips together as he scans Mickey with his pretty eyes. His debate remaining internal at least for now. Mickey knows he wants to chastise him for letting his deep seaded homophobia convince him to fuck a woman or some shit. That his dad’s opinion of gays must still be embedded in him. That he needs to free himself of whatever is holding him back.   
“Whatcha got for that Gay Jesus, huh?”   
HIs eyes roll, just as Mickey knew they would, “I told you to stop with that shit man.”  
A teasing eyebrow arch, “want me to prove I’m still gay for you, that it?” reaching out to tug Ian closer by the hips to where he’s sitting on the bottom bunk, “get that cock out, I’ll suck it dry.”  
————  
“Aw fuck,” cursing through clenched teeth as she taps out of his hold, “fast fuckin’ learner,” she remains flat on her back on the mats while she catches her breath.  
He reaches over for a drink of water, passing the bottle her way when she sits up. Studying her right hand for a moment, downgraded to a splint.   
“That thing feelin’ alright?” he wonders.  
“Fine,” she responds, “just wonderin’ why I gotta keep this fuckin’ stinky ass splint on it now.”  
“‘Cause your nail beds are still blueish,” reminding her.  
“Fuck off doc, mind your own…” her eyes have landed on an approaching figure, “oh fuck no,” she hollers across the dirt, “oh fuck that,” scrambling to get to her feet as Rocky nears. The crumpled old woman holding what appears to be a garment wrapped in plastic, “oh fuck no,” shouting as she backs away, “I already told you I ain’t wearin’ no goddamned dress! Fuck Navidad!”  
————  
HIs hands are shaking as he rips the envelope open. Taking a moment to close his eyes, gathering himself for the paper that’s waiting inside. This paper could change his life. He’s not certain he’s ready to look at it. Not certain he’ll ever be ready to look at it.  
————  
The place is crowded. Everyone dressed in their finest. The suit Rocky left laying on Mick’s cot is uncomfortable. But even he had to admit he looked damn fine in it.   
At the piano in the corner sits a woman. A woman with a floor length blue gown on. The same shade of blue as his suit jacket. He stands across the room for a long time watching her shoulder blades as she easily plays some Christmas songs. Even with a splinted hand it sounds perfect to his ears. He can’t help but linger on the scar that keeps peaking out from beneath her dress. Perfectly centered on her spine. And eternal reminder of what’s been done to her.  
“Saluda a mi hijo,” Martin stops beside Mickey, handing him a glass of champagne with a smile. Clinking their glasses together, “Feliz Navidad.”   
“Feliz Navidad,” he responds, his eyes once again finding and clinging to the woman.  
“Softness and strength,” Martin murmurs, “equally balanced. Equally breathtaking. And equally dangerous. One universe, nine planets, two-hundred-four countries, eight-hundred-nine islands, and seven seas. Yet here she is,” he nudges Mick’s arm with his own and disappears into the crowd.  
He finds her sitting outside with a joint pinched between her fingers awhile later. She’s watching the stars. Handing the joint his way when he sits next to her on the picnic table, “you look…”  
“Fuck off,” she growls.  
“Ridiculous,” he laughs.  
Her eyes meet his and she can’t help but laugh with him, “I know, right? You do too.”  
“Yeah,” he agrees. Reaching to loosen his tie and pop the top button on his dress shirt. Nudging her leg with his, “didn’t know you had musical abilities.”  
She takes a long toke of the pungent herb, blowing her exhale to the heavens, “I learned how to be who they wanted me to be when I was young. However that meant. And whoever it was.”  
Of all the layers of her he’s seen, his favorite is the one that makes faces at the coffee pot in the morning. A face like there’s no way in hell a machine could possibly be any slower. Her hair mused from sleep as she scoffs and pulls on her workout clothes. The version of her that swears like a sailor. The one that can both insult him and make him feel like he’s walking on air. Those quiet moments before she realizes he’s looking at her out on the mats. With the mid morning sun painting her in shades of gold. The layer of her that would risk life and limb to help a stranger.   
“Can I ask you somethin’?”  
“Can you?” she snickers.  
“May I?” rolling his eyes.  
“You may,” playing the part of a woman that would voluntarily wear a ballgown and act proper. But with a galaxy spinning wildly in her blue irises as she looks him over.  
“Why no kissing?”  
“Because kissing is dangerous,” she wastes no time replying and no time taking the last toke before standing, “come love. We’ll be expected to dance.”  
“I don’t dance,” he admits. Getting to his feet as well, offering his arm like a man wearing an expensive suit should.  
“You’ll dance with me love,” she warns with a dare in her smile.  
He can’t help but return the expression. He’s seen her take on men twice her size in the fights, snort enough coke to kill an elephant, drink enough tequila to drown a horse. But it’s kissing that’s dangerous. And it’s a dress that she’s afraid of.


	16. A Pornstar With A GED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Business as usual in the cell.

A Pornstar With a GED

HIs grip tightens on Mick’s hips, fingertips digging into his flesh, “shit Mickey. Goddamn,” feeling his toes curling as his hips swivel again, grinding his body further down onto Ian’s, “shit. Fuck. Wait,” gasping, “stop. Hold still. Fuck, I don’t want this to be over,” trying like hell to hold his hips steady.   
He’s always had a hard time convincing Mickey to ride him. Said it makes him feel like a fag. Whatever the fuck difference it makes. It’s admittedly one of the harder positions to master in this small space. But tonight he didn’t even have to ask. And his boyfriend looks like a goddamned pornstar up there. Holding onto the top bunk with one hand, his abs rippling every time he grinds on Ian’s cock.   
“Fuck you’re gorgeous,” Ian breathes, reaching suddenly for his face. Pulling him down as he sits to meet him in the middle. Mashing his lips against his before he can tell him to ‘fuck off’. Hungrily pulling him as close as physically possible. Feeling deeply every single tiny movement. Feeling it way too deeply when Mickey swivels his pelvis again. Unable to hold back for a moment longer, “fuck,” mumbled into Mickey’s mouth that’s still open against his.   
“Damn it,” cussing himself out but feeling his boyfriend’s mutual climax results on his own chest, “when did you turn into a pornstar? Fuck,” bending his knees up to meet Mickey’s back. Keeping him somewhat cradled there in his lap in this half crouched seated position that’ll be burning his back in short order. Keeping his face in his hands to kiss until his lips are raw before lying back and taking his man with him.   
He’s been straining at finding the proper emotions about Mickey’s wife. Part of him knew he’d never be able to marry this man. For one reason or another it just never seemed to be in the cards for them. Whether it be the homophobia bred into him from his father, or Ian’s own reluctance to fully commit. He wasn’t sure. But he was certainly confused and hurt by the fact that Mickey was once again married to a woman. This time one he cares about.   
It seems every time they bury one skeleton, another rises.   
“I, uh, got you somethin’”, admitting somewhat shyly when their lips finally part. Not rising from his perch, retrieving a piece of paper from under his mattress.  
“Why?”  
“You really think I’d forget your fuckin’ birthday fuckface?”  
Honestly, he did. After Mickey spent most of the day at the library. Ian thought it was a strange work study for him, pictured him as a better fit in the kitchen or something. Ian had lucked out and been assigned to the infirmary because of his past EMT training. And with that he got to keep up on his certification, though he doubted he’d ever stand a chance of working as an EMT with a felony on his record.   
He looks concerned, maybe a little embarrassed, when he hands Ian a tri-folded piece of paper. Ian doesn’t want to look away from his ocean eyes but he peels his focus off to look at the paper, “what?! Seriously?! Mick, that’s…” pride and excitement hard to contain, “this is…” tears springing to his eyes, blurring first the words on the paper and then the perfect face of the man watching him, “this is so… I’m so proud of you,” dropping the paper now to reach for Mickey’s face. Caressing his cheek tenderly, “so proud of you. You’re…”  
“Yeah, yeah. Passed it first try.”  
Either Ian is crazy or Mickey Milkovich is blushing. And maybe it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. It’s well established that Ian is in fact crazy, but he’s not seeing things. Well, he could be. But that sweet pink rising in Mickey’s cheeks is real. He can feel it, under his thumb. Just as clearly as he can feel the stubble. He can feel the heat of a blush.   
“Fuck, Mick. How’d I get so lucky?” rubbing his thumb across his chiseled jawline, “my boyfriend’s a pornstar with a GED!”  
“Fuck you,” he manages to get out of his mouth before Ian yanks him down on top of him. Pressing his lips against his sweet ones. Pulling his body as close as he can before quickly rolling him to his back. Stopping just long enough to admire his breathtaking smile beneath him.


	17. Firecracker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small introduction to a major monster.

Firecracker

Eduardo presses his lips together. Wetting them with his tongue and watching as the blue eyed angel turns in his collections for the day. He recognized him from the fights. He remembered seeing him for the first time in the ring. HIs body a thing of Eduardo’s most explicit dreams. The image swimming in his mind since. His father had forbidden him to bid any of the fighters for this season. After the fiasco of last year with the Bolivian boy. His dick tingled at the thought of his long camel lashes framing his fear filled eyes. Watching him shudder as Bruno cracked the whip over his backside. Blood smattering Bruno’s bare chest.   
Licking his lips as his eyes wander the new foot soldier. Errand boy, “mmm,” he hears himself purr as he steps into the man’s back. Looking over his shoulder at the table of money. His take is impressive for a beginner. Announcing tomorrow’s assignments from behind this man, dismissing the others but keeping this gringo for a moment longer. He steps closer, pinning this beautiful creature between his pelvis and the table.   
He’s met with a low warning growl, “step the fuck back.”  
Instead, leaning his face into the nape of the man’s neck and taking a handful of asscheek. Nipping the tender skin between his teeth, tension rising in the man’s posture. Fight or flight instincts kicking in. HIs fists clenching at his sides. Tattoos Eduardo had noticed earlier. Wanting to see those fingers wrapped around his cock as his own wrapped around this milky intoxicating neck.   
“Rocky’s new boy, hmm?” breathing against his skin, “she send you here?”  
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. i said step the fuck back,” tension remaining in his posture but he knows the power game. And he has none. He’s grown into a hell of a fighter, Eduardo knows he could kick his ass. But this gringo knows Eduardo will slit his beautiful pale throat in a heart beat and watch him bleed out on the gold-flecked tiled floor of his mansion. The image making heat rise in his abdomen as he takes a deep breath of the man’s neck. Feeling drunk and reckless off the scent of him.   
Pressing his pelvis against his ass cheeks. Feeling the counter pressure of a man weighing his options, “maybe you didn’t hear me,” purring against the man’s ear, running his wetted tongue along the lobe before sucking the soft skin between his lips, “Rocky send you?”  
“No. Need some cash. Bitch don’t pay.”  
Suddenly grasping his hips, spinning him harshly to face him. His blue eyes are confident, not a trace of fear in them. Not today. No, not today. HIs expression unfaltering as Eduardo slides a hand to the small of the man’s back, “your name gringo.”  
“Mikhailo.”  
“Mikhailo,” slipping his fingers between his pants and his flesh, “Mikhailo. I like the way that tastes,” his middle finger finding his asscrack, “I like the way it feels on my tongue,” pressing in with his fingertips as the beautiful gringo sneers at him, “not today Mikhailo. Not today,” backing away suddenly when a flash of danger explodes like a firecracker in the blue of his eyes, “but someday I’ll have you. You’ll give yourself to me. Or I’ll take you. Either way,” reaching for his chin to promise, “I’ll have you Mikhailo.”


	18. A Safe Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey are going to openly and honestly start talking about their past issues. And Mickey finds a safe place in Mexico.

A Safe Place

Ian takes a deep breath of the back of Mick’s neck. At the same moment reaching to press his shoulders towards the bed. Still rocking hips gently, swaying to a sleepy rhythm, pressing their lips together for a sweet kiss. Post climax, overstimulated yet overtired with something bubbling inside his chest at the innocent gesture as Ian pulls away and wonders, “you know how much I love you, right?”  
Looking into his green gaze, “enough to leave me at the border in a fuckin’ dress,” he snorts. Surprised at the metal in his own voice. Surprised that it came out of his mouth. And that fuckin’ look on Ian’s face. Like the world just fell down around them and there was no way to fix any of their shit so they should just cut and run. Damnit. He turns away suddenly, not wanting to look at Ian as his expression falls away from tender into a mixture of sadness and loss. What is this shit anyway? He’s always the one urging Mickey to talk, to sort it out, to vocalize things as they appear in his mind. So they can work it out. They can figure it all out, talk it through like a couple of chicks. But every time he says something he gets that look. The one he’s wearing now. And fuck it all if Mickey doesn’t feel so fuckin’ horrible for taking the wind out of the kid’s sails that he just wants to backpedal his way out of it instead of laying his heart out there to dissect.  
He makes a move to get up, but Ian’s ridiculously tight grip on his body just tightens more when he shifts, “you’re not going anywhere,” growling against bare skin, “until we talk this shit out. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere.”  
There’s a long drawn out moment of silence. Nothing but breathing between them. The rigidity that had taken both of their bodies at Mickey’s words starting to bend. Give a little, giving way to each other’s warmth. Ian pulling himself closer to Mick’s back. Leaving nothing between them but the sheen of sweat. He takes a deep breath and wonders, “you’re worried I’m going to abandon you again?”  
“No,” his knee-jerk response, “no I don’t fuckin’…”  
“I know. You can’t be abandoned when you’ve never counted on anyone. As far as Mickey Milkovich is concerned the only thing that he can count on in the end is himself. Everyone else is made for abandonment.”  
“That’s not true. I…”  
“You think I don’t see it? That little countdown in your head. The moment someone new walks into your life you’re just waiting for them to walk out. You built quite the fuckin’ wall around yourself Mick. Then you let me in…”  
“You forced your smarmy little ass in.”  
He bristles at the accusation, but knows he needs to agree, “I pushed you, prodded you, goaded you into admitting you had feelings for me. Yeah, I did. Not everybody just gets to blurt out how they fuckin’ feel every minute, that’s what you told me. I get it Mick. I understand now. I never did then. I never realized just how terrified you were. I knew you were scared of your old man but I used it against you. I didn’t realize the full extent of it. I never will, because as fucked up as Frank is, he’s never gay-bashed me. Fucker’s taken it in the ass more than I ever have,” his arms are wrapping around Mickey in a way to keep Mick’s arms close to his chest, pinning them, sliding his fingers between the tattooed ones, “fuck Frank. And fuck Terry. Really fuck Terry. Like I fucking dream about seeing his head bashed in with a baseball bat and…”  
Mickey’s snort stops Ian’s rant from continuing. Nothing can be said or done to that man that he doesn’t deserve, but blood is still blood. No matter the level contamination.   
He sighs, his breath moving gently across Mickey’s bare skin, “It’s just that, fuck, you just always have seemed so fuckin’ tough. Completely indestructible. And invincible. Like nothing I could ever do could hurt you. When in reality everything I did hurt you. Everything.”  
————  
“No, don’t tap,” she instructs, her mouth close to his ear, “not yet,” releasing the choke hold she has on him slightly. Just enough to lift the feeling that the world is closing in on him, “breathe. Take a moment to think this through. Use your head. Not your anger. You can get out of this. You can,” but when she tightens her hold again he feels panic budding in his chest.   
The distant sound of his father’s voice in his ear. He had sat at the kitchen table. Watching his french toast grow cold. The syrup grow gelatinous. Listening as his father and uncle wrapped his mother’s lifeless body in a blanket. Carrying her broken body out the back door. He sat there in his own puddle of piss. Unmoving. Barely breathing. When the door opened again with a screech he held his breath. His father’s hand clamping the back of his neck. Dragging him to his feet. Pushing his face against the stove where his mother’s blood, hair and brain matter are splattered.   
‘If this is what happens to fag lovers,’ his growl making every part of Mickey’s little body tremble with fear, ‘what do you think happens to faggots?’ swiping his little feet out from under him. Slamming him against the blood soaked linoleum, his heel coming down hard on Mickey’s jaw, grinding his face into his mother’s last moments of life, ‘goddamned Mama’s boy. Clean it up before your sister gets home,’ his parting shot a stomp to Mickey’s left hand.   
“Where the fuck are you going?” her voice filtering into his memory, the slight urgency to it jolting him back to the Mexican heat and the feel of her body against his back, “hey pretty boy, the fuck you go? You get your ass back here. Right now. You’re in a safe place. You’re right here, in a safe place. Breathe with me pretty boy. No one can hurt you here, okay? This is safe.”  
“Fuck,” he finally stutters. Feeling returning to his limbs. Her arms around him, hands clasped in hers at his chest. He feels suddenly as though he’s going to jump out of his own skin. Shoving back into her to dislodge her. She lets him go. Sitting up he runs a shaking hand through his sweat slicked hair, “fuck. Don’t know what the fuck that was,” he admits. His stomach feels queasy, mouth dry. HIs vision keeps jumping. Closing his eyes as his fingers meet his lids.   
After a beat of silence she tells him, “that, love, was a panic attack.”  
“No it fuckin’ wasn’t,” denying. Catching the buzzing in his ears.   
“You need a safe place.”  
“The fuck’s that mean?” his defense mechanisms clearly in place.  
“In your head. You need to find a safe place. When’s the last time you felt that? Completely and utterly safe?”  
“Never,” he chokes on it but in his mind he’s waking in Ian’s arms. The morning after he came out. His dad locked up again. The man he loves pressed so close to his back that there’s no room for air, their fingers locked together at his chest, “fuck,” further than that. His mother. Her eyes, her voice, ‘good morning sleepy face’. But they’re both lost to him. Those places couldn’t be safe. Not anymore.  
“Trust me?” her voice cuts into his fog again.  
“Yeah,” he chokes. Honestly and immediately.  
“I’m not going to touch you right now. But you need to look at me. Take your time,” her voice has taken a gentle edge he’s never heard before.   
Grinding the heal of his hands against his closed eyes until sparks fly, hiding the fading image of his dead mother. He takes a deep breath, letting oxygen flow back into his body. Appreciating once again her insistence that he quit the cigarettes.   
Opening his eyes slowly to the blinding sun glaring off the window of the main house across from them. Blinking hard at the threat of tears. An attempt at another deep breath is caught in his chest and without his permission his head turns. Gaze landing on her face. Open and supportive.   
“This. Right here,” her hands motioning in the air between them, “this is a safe place Mick,” her right hand landing on her chest overtop her heart, “this is a safe place,” left hand hovering palm up in the air between them. It takes him a moment but he lays his down in hers. She folds her long graceful fingers around his palm, “this is a safe place. For you. Always.”


	19. Learning To Hold On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A longer discussion into past issues and whether they'll be able to deal with the future.

Learning to Hold On

“I never had a safe place,” his voice is trembling but his body has stopped. Ian’s not certain anymore if he’s holding him or restraining him. All he knows is that he’s going to grip tightly. As tight as Mickey will let him for the rest of his life, “I watched my only safe place get beat to death when I was seven.”  
Mandy didn’t have any details. The things she told Ian. Just that Mickey was there when it happened. She didn’t even know if he was in the same room. He had been high as a kite when he finally told her. They were teenagers by then. She also told Ian how she used to sleep with earplugs in. It started so she couldn’t hear Terry beating the hell out of her brother every morning through the wall shared by their bedrooms. It continued as a defense mechanism. Like she could protect herself for just that much longer if she couldn’t hear him turning the doorknob.  
“Then there was you. And my dad ruined that too,” his voice hitches and Ian thinks it might crack his heart in half, “but then you came back. You were different. And I loved you the same, if not more. But then I couldn’t get you out of bed, I couldn’t,” he chokes off.  
This is where normally Ian would push, interrupt, force a feeling to be acknowledged and spoken of. But this hasn’t worked for them in the past. And this is the whole point, it’s time to come to terms with the past. For both of them. Ian will most likely make parole next week. He knows without a doubt that he’ll wait the next year for Mick. He knows it now like he always did, he’ll wait for the rest of his life for this man. The difference this time, he’s willing to admit it. To cut the shit and commit no matter what that means.  
“I didn’t want to fix you Ian. I never thought you were broken. Never. I just wanted to be more for you. I wanted to be the one thing that you could lean on. The one person that wouldn’t judge you or make you feel like you were crazy. Because you’re not. It’s a disease, it’s not you. I doesn’t have to be you. But I couldn’t make you see that. I couldn’t love you enough to…”  
The amount of pain coursing through Ian’s body is nearly more than he can bear. Wanting to cut in, wanting so badly to kiss and comfort instead of allowing this conversation to continue. Knowing how much he hurt Mickey and hearing it are completely different things. He’s not sure he was prepared, or he’d ever be prepared, to hear it. From a guy who never gets to just blurt out of he fuckin’ feels, he’s come this far.  
“And even if you were broken it was still you,” he snorts this one, some bitterness in his voice, “it was you sittin’ on the other side of the glass actin’ like you didn’t give a fuck and you never had,” cracking in his voice even through the tough facade he’s trying to gather the strength to put forward, “and I know how to spell your fuckin’ name, alright? I know everything about your idiot ginger ass, ‘course I know how to spell your name. I know your birthdate, height, weight, soc number, your favorite food, drink, movie, book, I know you suck at fuckin’ math even though you pretend not to. I know your damn siblings’ first and middle names, and birthdays. I know more than that but I’m starting to sound like a fuckin’ stalker.”  
He falls silent for a moment, Ian can feel the smile that’s started on his face. Not having any idea Mick remembered all that shit. A warmth and comfort spreading in his chest at the thought that he had filed so much information about Ian in his memory. He nudges his nose into Mick’s neck, urging him silently to continue.  
He can feel it in Mickey’s chest when he takes a deep breath, “so what happened is, I was trippin’ balls on whatever shit Damon found to huff. I got the stupid fuckin’ idea to put your name on my chest. I was so high I could barely see straight. Tattooing your own skin ain’t easy, ‘specially when it’s upside down and you ain’t got a mirror.”  
Ian wasn’t expecting the rundown of this, but maybe a lighter subject is what Mickey needs right now. Time to gather his thoughts and get his emotions nailed down. Or push them away.  
“Then I forgot I even did it. ’Til I saw your mopey fuckin’ face on the other side of that glass. Lookin’ at me like you’d rather be anywhere else. Svetlana had to pay you to sit there. You know how shitty that fuckin’ felt? You coulda just not told me. Then you never answered when I called. And you never visited. Jesus,” his voice starts hitching again and it takes all the willpower in Ian’s body not to interrupt him, plead his own case instead.  
“I’m stuck in fuckin’ prison for attempted murder because of your goddamned family with your fuckin’ name spelled wrong on my chest. And all I can think about is how you couldn’t even fuckin’ look me in the eye and tell me to fuck off. ‘Yeah Mick, I’ll wait’, how long did it take before you were fuckin’ another dude that time? Was I even locked away before you started bangin’ somebody else? We both know faithful ain’t your strong suit.”  
Regret has knotted up in Ian’s stomach. A knot that feels so tight it’ll never be untied. He knew he’d damaged the man he loved, but never grasped the depth of it before. Wondering now if it’s unrepairable. He feels a tear escape him. Trailing down his cheek and onto Mickey’s bare shoulder.  
“I broke out. I was so fuckin’ terrified that you wouldn’t show. I told you I knew you’d come. But that was bullshit. I didn’t know anything at that point. I didn’t know you anymore. But there was no way in hell I’d admit that. When you got in the car,” pausing to find the right words, taking a deep breath and holding it, “fuck.”  
Southside poetry at it’s finest.  
“Fuck that felt good. It felt real. It felt like the first real chance we ever had. Part of me knew it was selfish to ask you to come. Part of me knew it wasn’t right to expect you to follow me when you were still coming to terms with your disease and throwing that kind of pressure on you wasn’t right. But you smiled a real fuckin’ smile at me. A real one. And you got in that car completely of your own free will. I’m sure Fiona and Lip would’ve told you not to. But you did it anyway. And I felt so fuckin’…” he’s searching for words again.  
Mick’s word association with good things is limited. He could tell you a million different words to use for feeling shitty. But the good ones, they’re not imprinted anywhere in his DNA. Grasping once again, his fallback word, “fuck. Relieved. I was doing something stupid and reckless but I’d have you with me. And no more stupid and reckless than most of the other things I’d done. It was just different this time ‘casue it sure in the fuck wasn’t Chicago.”  
A long silence follows, but Ian still knows it isn’t his turn to speak. He knows by the pattern of his lover’s breathing that he’s gathering himself. Trying to find the rest of the things he wants to say, things he needs to get off his chest. His chest, which now has Ian’s name spelled correctly on it. It was spelled right by the time he escaped prison years ago. Ian thinks it’s beautiful. He always did, it was just easier to rib Mick for it than admit he loved the romantic gesture. And the finality of it. The openness and willingness to announce his love for Ian.  
His voice is halting when it starts once again, “at the border. I knew it just as well as you did. You had a life in Chicago. You have family and friends, and this alleged boyfriend I heard about that you were all hot and bothered over, madly in love with, whatever,” of course he can’t hide the snark in his voice and can’t pass up the chance to take the dig. It makes Ian want to bring up Mick’s wife again, but he forces it down.  
“It was just another moment that it hit me I’d never be enough for you. Another moment that I had to face alone. I put myself there, I take full blame in that. You never asked me to break out, never asked me to fuck with Sammi in the first place. Honestly the only thing you ever did was ask me to leave you the fuck alone. More than once…”  
“No,” now he can’t help himself, “no Mick. I might have said it, but I never once meant it,” removing his face from his love’s neck, untangling one hand from his to take his chin. Hovering close to his face when he finally turns to look at him. Watching his incredible eyes, admitting, “I never verbally asked you for anything because I knew I never had to. I knew you’d do whatever it took to protect me and love me. I knew without asking that you’d do anything for me. Anything.”  
“Yeah including kick you in the face when all you wanted was some confirmation of my feelings for you.”  
“Well you were crying when you did it, so it doesn’t count,” he shrugs, “and I was pretty much asking for it. Daring you to hit me. I got what I wanted. I already knew anyway. The way you looked at me. You didn’t need the words. You’ve always looked at me like that.”  
Silence lays over them for a moment. Not the tense silence that’s been lingering all night. Open silence. Watching each other’s eyes. Letting some emotions wordlessly tangle and untangle between them. Peeling back layers of the web they’ve created with one another. Tearing some strings that don’t need to be there anymore. Knowing they can build new ones now. They can build stronger ones. It’ll take time. It’ll take effort. Maybe more adversity than they’ve ever faced before. Which is saying a fuck of a lot. But they’re both adults now. They’ve both grown and changed in their time apart. They’ve become their own men with their own lives, their own problems under control. Separate lives with an undeniable past and an unbelievable future ahead of them. They’ll make it. Silently pledging each other in the darkness of their prison cell, they’ll make it. And they’ll do it together.  
It’s Mickey who cracks the intensity of the silence with a smirk, “the fuck you lookin’ at Gallagher?”  
His thumb rising to trace the perfection of Mickey’s jawline, “you Mick. I’m lookin’ at you. And I’m sorry for the shit I’ve put you through. I love you. I’ve loved you since the first time we fucked, and I’ll love you until the last breath leaves my body.”  
“You fuckin’ corny fuck,” he smirks but Ian can see in his eyes the comfort and relief his pledge has offered. He can also see the sheer exhaustion taking over his man’s features. He doesn’t want this to end. He wants to stare at Mickey’s face for the rest of the night. Their time here, alone, is dwindling. Part of Ian wants to punch a guard in the face, or shiv a Neo-Nazi to extend his sentence. But he knows he needs to get out of here, get back into the real world and put down a base for a future together, “you gonna keep starin’ at me all night or you gonna get on me again?”  
Ian doesn’t stifle his grin, hurriedly getting to his knees to shove Mickey to his back. Leaning over him to press kisses against his hot perfect mouth. Feeling a tiny bit of anger and resentment lingering on his tongue. They’ll fight it out this way now. With their tongues. They’ll attack and chase each other. Clashing, smothering, until they’re too exhausted to resist the purity of pleasure. And that’s when Ian will take Mickey. He’ll watch his face, his gorgeous eyes as he enters his body. Chest to chest. Hearts beating in sync with one another. They’ll rub and rock together. They’ll sway and twist. Breathe each other’s breath with foreheads leaned together. They’ll memorize the way this feels now. They’ll learn to hold onto this. To keep it close in the moments of doubt and separation of their upcoming year apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, did anyone buy that Mickey couldn't spell Gallagher? C'mon!


	20. She'll Find Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick discussion between Ian and Mickey.  
> A brief introduction to a minor character that will influence Mickey's decisions in Mexico.

She’ll Find Me

“You gonna look for her when you get out?” sliding his fingers between Mickey’s with a sigh.  
“Hmm?” tilting his face to kiss the top of Ian’s head.  
“Your wife. You gonna look for her?”  
“Nah. She’ll find me if she wants to.”  
————  
“Who’s the kid?”   
“Fuck if I know,” shielding the sun with her hand, watching him walk up the drive in the late afternoon. She whistles a cat call at him, “mmm work it sexy thing.”  
He snorts a response at her but reaches for her when he’s near. Hasn’t seen her in a week. It was shockingly easy to get in with the Alvarez cartel. Helped that the twisted fuck Eduardo had a thing for Mickey’s ass. Helped that he could pretend he didn’t speak a lick of Spanish. Eduardo wanted him close, making him more like personal security than anything nearly immediately. Which also made it easy to overhear the bulk of business. Lou was right, there were some fucked up things happening and the Alvarez boys were the root of the problem.  
She leans into him for a moment to rub her face along his collarbone, something he’s come to love, before she takes a step back. He can’t see her eyes through her aviators but he knows she’s scanning him over, looking for anything she should be concerned about. Deciding there’s not anything to address she shrugs, “found the kid when I was out for a run. Naked, bloody feet. Dehydrated and hungry. Alone. ‘Bout three days ago. Won’t say a word.”  
She looks to be about four years old. As his gaze scans her over he feels a pang of guilt. That guilt that no matter what he tells himself just won’t go away. He’s got a better life than Mick ever could provide. He’s livin’ like fuckin’ royalty. But his father figure is an old man. If he’s not dead yet, that is. Does his son call someone else ‘dad’?   
“Fuck,” he responds finally. Not certain if it’s about the skinny little girl sitting in the shade playing with an old worn out doll, or about his son.   
“My guess,” shrugging her shoulders again, “human trafficking.”  
“Fuck.”  
“Yah,” she gives him that cocky smirk, elbowing him and ordering, “alright let’s get through this shit before your pretty little head forgets any important details.”  
————  
“I’m confused,” Ian sighs, lifting his head to watch Mickey’s face. He reaches up to run his fingers through his favorite ginger hair, “you said you love her. Yet you don’t call her, she doesn’t visit or write, and you’re not even concerned about it? You’re not worried about finding her when you get out?”  
“No,” he sighs, trying to find the right words to explain their relationship without hurting Ian, “I just,” sliding the pad of his index finger along the sharp line of Ian’s jaw, “she’s… she’ll find me.”  
“But you haven’t had any contact with her? How do you know she hasn’t moved on?”  
“Moved on?” he snorts it, knowing deeply the impossibility of that scenario. Even if he’s staring at his soul mate right now, and she’s not it, he knows her. And he knows the lengths she’d go to for the people she loves.  
————  
The sound of laughter outside the window filtering into his head. Rubbing at his eyes, a smile rises when the sound amplifies outside. The little girl joining in on the musical sounds coming from Lou and Martin. She’s been at the complex for four weeks now. It was Mick that she finally spoke to. Not sure why she chose him, but once she started talking it seemed she’d never shut up. He had made a silly face at her over dinner one night and her giggle went un-stifled. When he made another face her giggle became a laugh. And once her mouth produced a sound, it didn’t stop until she told them about the men that came to their home and took them. Her mother and her older sister. Their father was already dead. Human trafficking, one of the many talents of the Alvarez cartel.  
Mick was the first to admit that he didn’t know a lot about a lot of things. But the more time he spent with this particular cartel, the more he knew Lou was right. They had to be stopped. There’s an entire spectrum of cartels and the people within them. But as far as he could tell with this one, each layer was more rotten than the other. Sometimes cutting the head off the snake isn’t enough.   
When he exits into the early morning sunshine Rosa rushes him immediately. Wrapping her skinny arms around his knees, “beunos dias Mickey!”  
“Beunos dias,” he reaches down to pinch the tip of her nose, pretending he stole it from her. She laughs that little kid uncontrolled laughter that produces a grin on Lou’s face and hope in Mick’s chest.   
————  
“Can you just do somethin’ for me?”  
“Anything,” he looks like an eager to please puppy.  
“Just give her a chance when you meet her. She ain’t your competition,” he doesn’t bother adding that if she was, Ian wouldn’t stand a chance. 

*don't get huffy - see notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take that last comment as you will - I mean it more along the line of the chick has three black belts so...  
> Sorry if sometimes I come off as anti-Ian, have no fear Gallavich shippers, I do remember the good old days and in my mind they will always be making out in a dugout with bloody faces.


	21. Some Debts To Pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Release day for Mickey. We've skipped some time here.

Some Debts To Pay

Ian takes his phone out of his pocket again. For like the thousandth time in the last fifteen minutes. He’s late. Or maybe he heard the time wrong. Or maybe he got here like two hours early. So there’s no maybe about that one. He’s been pacing the parking lot for two hours. Two hours and fifteen minutes now. He couldn’t stand the chance of being late. He knew he had to be the very first thing Mickey laid eyes on when he exited the prison.   
He wipes at the sweat beading at the back of his neck. He has plans for today. Lots of plans. But the very first thing he wants to do is touch his face. He gets giddy just thinking about it. Picking up his pace. He can feel a manic episode taking root in his chest, but he couldn’t take the sedative and sleep it off. Not today. He’s been doing good, taking care of himself. He’s been doing it all himself, not relying on his siblings to help him keep track of his meds. He’s promised himself and Mick that he’ll do this, he’ll keep it together. For himself. And part of doing it for himself also means doing it for Mickey. Because Ian knows he can’t be Ian without that man.   
“Fuck,” hands rubbing his face quickly, checking his phone once again.   
Not many people out here. Not a very big release day he guessed. He noticed one about a half hour ago. Who wouldn’t? She’s sitting on the tailgate of a truck smoking a joint. She’s ballsy enough to sit outside a prison and smoke a joint. One leg lazily swinging back and forth, slowly. Back and forth. The other drawn towards her chest, one arm resting loosely around her knee. She’s tall, golden bronze, and lean. He felt her eyes lazily appraising him awhile back. Same way he did her. Her worn out boots, short shorts in the midsummer heat. Shirt with cutoff sleeves that looks like it’s about as worn out as a shirt can be without falling apart. It’s too loose on her. And looks vaguely familiar. Her face is hard to discern, mostly hidden by the shade of a ball cap and a pair of aviators. But what he can see of her, it’s perfect structure and pink lips that keep pressing together gently every time she looks at the door of the prison. He can’t think of a soul he knew in there that would be getting out to this. He’s willing to admit that even a gay guy can see she’s worth bragging over.  
“Fuck,” he stops his pacing route momentarily. He’s going to explode if that door doesn’t open in the next thirty seconds. This last year trying to adjust to being in the world again, it’s been hell. It would have been easier had he done something inside to extend his sentence, if he and Mickey could have done this together. Lip picked him up the day he got out. Told him they were headed home to a surprise party but he didn’t have to if it would be too much for him. He went, and good god if the noise of the Gallagher house wasn’t worse than the noises in prison. Overwhelmed and overstimulated he went to bed that night on a sedative and slept for twelve hours. Missing a call from Mickey that morning. Feeling awful like he’d only been out for not even a full day and he was already failing his boyfriend.   
By the time he dragged himself downstairs Debbie gave him an envelope that had arrived at their house the day before. Inside he found the money he gave Mick at the border, still in it’s original bank envelope, and a note in his sloppy hand that said ‘I told you I didn’t want your money bitch. Now do something useful with it. Like take some classes at Malcolm X or some shit.’  
Of course he’d do something like that. Mickey never needed anything from anyone and he wasn’t about to take that money to the grave with him.   
“Fuck,” when he looks at his phone again. It’s twenty minutes late now. Twenty-one. There’s frustration rising to the back of his throat. Fuck it’s hot out. And the sun, fuck.  
He was glad to find the Gay Jesus throng had died down when he was locked up. It wasn’t that he regretted the movement from start to finish. He regretted what he had turned it into. He meant to help people. Help people who needed it without hurting anyone else in the process. And he failed at that. He wrote a couple apology letters to the people he knew he had hurt the most. But he didn’t want to rekindle a friendship with any of the people from that part of this life. It was easier and it made more sense to just keep his distance. That part, of all the things he regretted doing since being diagnosed, maybe the biggest was telling Mickey he couldn’t be with him because he had his shit together. Then he just came home and lit that on fire. He guessed in a way Fiona was right, he had his shit together and Mickey would light a match to it. But it wasn’t Mickey’s presence that lit that match, it was Mickey’s absence. Maybe someday she’d understand that.   
Doesn’t matter right now. None of it does. Because that door is opening and whole shit-stained world could be burning around him, he’d not notice. All he can see are those blue eyes and that sexy smirk that clearly reads ‘get your ginger ass over here and tongue-fuck me’. He covers the distance in a few long strides, crashing into MIckey’s body and attacking his mouth. Hearing himself admitting over and over, “I missed you,” against his tongue, his lips, “I missed you. I missed you.”  
The feel of Mickey’s hand on the back of his head, drawing him nearer, as close as two people can fucking get with their clothes still on. He’d nearly expected the old Mick, the one who would have cut his tongue out instead. His entire body feels like it’s floating away from him when they finally release each other.  
“Goddamn Gallagher,” breaking into a grin, that sparkle in his eyes as he watches Ian’s face.   
“I missed you.”  
“Yeah, yeah I heard you the first fifty fuckin’ times,” pressing him in for another kiss. This time a little more mellow. The sweet tender one that Ian had envisioned when he envisioned this moment. But his passion and lust got the better of him in the flood he felt from those ocean eyes.   
“Fuck, I missed you.”  
“Okay firecrotch,” tapping his cheek in a Mickey-esque way that’s a little sweet and little rough, “you go for your run this morning?”  
“No. No I didn’t. I got up and came here. I came here because I wanted to be the first thing you laid eyes on when you got out. I wanted to make sure I’d be here.”  
“You eat breakfast yet?”  
“No. No I didn’t. I didn’t. I got ahead of myself. I guess I…” his stomach starts twisting, realizing, “I forgot my meds this morning. Oh shit Mick. I forgot to take my meds. I forgot to eat breakfast and I forgot to take my meds.”  
“Okay. ’S alright, we’ll take ‘em now, huh? We’ll eat some breakfast somewhere quiet and we’ll find somewhere to chill alone, alright?”  
“Yeah. Yeah, we can do that, we can… what about the stuff we talked about? What about that? You wanna do that instead? We could get a hotel room or somethin’. I fucked up Mick. I couldn’t find us an apartment. I’m still at home, and we’re…”  
Mick’s hand on the back of Ian’s neck is the only thing grounding him right now, “I know,” his voice is calm, soothing, “you’ve been taking classes and haven’t spent much time at home anyway. So that’s okay for now. As long as you’re okay there, then that’s okay.”  
He’s having trouble finding a focal point, his excitement getting the better of him, he wants nothing more right now than to find a room and fuck Mick until he can’t walk right.  
“Look at me,” gently urging, his right hand finding Ian’s chest, resting there over his heart, “let’s breathe a minute alright?”  
“Okay. Okay. I can do that. I can do that with you.”  
It takes him awhile to find Mickey’s pattern of ins and outs. Sorting though all the noises and images around him to find Mickey. To find his clear blue eyes. And the feel of his breath on Ian’s neck. In and out. His hand rises to snake into Mick’s at his chest. In and out. His eyes close to a million little flecks dancing and exploding in his lids. In and out. The bursting lights starting to calm with every breath. The swirling slowing. The buzzing in his ears quieting. Listening as Mickey breathes. In and out. The spots and explosions in his lids receding. Turning into something more manageable. In and out. In and out. In and out. The sun on his skin doesn’t feel quite so hot anymore. The air not quite so heavy. In and out. In and out. In and out. His eyes open. Floating in a calm sea. He’s floating now. And he can maintain this for now. He can have breakfast. Take his meds a little late, a little off schedule. He can find somewhere quiet to just sit with his boyfriend. And they can reunite between the sheets later. Or tomorrow. He can do that. This sea is calm and it’s not going anywhere.  
“Hi,” Mickey smiles gently. Like nothing strange just happened. Like he just walked out of prison and hugged his boyfriend for the first time in a year and his boyfriend wasn’t acting like a person who wanted to crawl out of his own skin.  
“Hi,” he responds with relief washing over him. He can do this. He can.   
Mick nods at him, a silent agreement to the silent affirmation, “let’s get chow then.”  
Sliding their hands into one another between them. The parking lot has emptied in the time they’ve been standing there. All but one spot. The woman who was smoking a joint earlier. The joint is gone but she’s not. Still sitting the same nonchalant way she was sitting before. When Mickey’s attention turns her way he whispers, “holy fuck,” with a note of disbelief and underlying relief that Ian can’t understand. And before he can ask, they’re walking towards her. His grip on Ian’s hand hasn’t changed but there’s an airy quality to his stride that wasn’t there before.   
She doesn’t move as they near. Only her mouth, turning into a smile before whistling a catcall. Her leg stops swinging when they’re standing in the path of it, “your stay at the fuckin’ Ritz Carlton looks good on you pretty boy.”  
He doesn’t respond. Just stares at her for a moment. Is Mickey speechless? Is Mickey Milkovich speechless? Finally he sputters, “you look…”  
“Sober,” she removes her sunglasses to reveal a set of sparkling light blue eyes, “well, aside from the herbal remedies,” she winks, her gaze finally leaving Mickey’s. Landing on Ian and stating, “you’re Ian Gallagher,” her hand extending toward him.  
He has to let go of Mick’s in order to shake hers. It’s impressively strong, and he’s impressively lost for words when she looks directly at him. Like she’s looking through his eyes and right into his soul.   
“Lou,” she offers. That’s all she offers. And he nearly chokes on his own spit. This is Lou? This right here is Lou? What the fuck?   
Her attention turns back to Mickey though she hasn’t dropped Ian’s hand just yet. Giving it a light squeeze on his fingertips before she does.   
“How you know I was gettin’ out today? And where the fuck you been?”  
Amusement twinkles in her eyes, “who you think was keepin’ your commissary account white-man-rich, huh? And you really think your sweet mouth is what was keepin’ you safe in there?”  
He doesn’t vocally respond. He’s grinning at her as he reaches out. She slides off the tailgate, and into his arms. If he kisses her Ian might lose his shit. He was sort of prepared for her to reappear. Or at least to meet her at some point. Or to watch Mick sign divorce papers. But this, this is, well Mickey looks like he’s laying his head down after a really long fuckin’ day. And she’s trailing her nose across his collarbone. If she was doing it with more vigor Ian would think she was snorting coke of his boyfriend’s skin. What the fuck? This is more than friends. This is more than some girl he was trying to pretend he was straight for. This isn’t some pregnant whore. This is love. He wasn’t hearing Mickey when he said it. When he said he loves her. He didn’t want to hear it. No way in hell he’d believe it. Not until now. Right now. And fuck he was expecting a piece of trash. Like Angie Zago. Everybody fucks Angie. But this chick. Ian gets a feeling like nobody fucks this chick.   
Releasing the lingering hug. If he kisses her…  
He doesn’t. Neither one of them makes any move to even sort of implicate kissing will be involved. She smiles again, watching his face and telling him, “I’ll let you to it,” tipping her head towards Ian.   
“We’re gonna grab breakfast, you…”  
“Nah. Got some debts to pay this afternoon,” she replies. Replacing her sunglasses and closing the tailgate.   
Before she can turn away Mick’s hand snags the front of her shirt. Not pulling her near, not begging her to stay. It’s not vaguely familiar. It’s extremely familiar. It’s Mickey’s shirt. It’s the blue checked shirt he was wearing for most of their ride down to Mexico. it’s what kept me going in the joint. You. The beach.  
A brand new surge of regret passes through Ian’s body as he watches Mick’s FUCK hand holding the fabric with a smile on his face.   
“Got more of your shit in the cab,” she shrugs, “but it’ll wait.”  
“Got a couple bodies in there too?” his eyebrow rises and Ian can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.  
“Nah, they ain’t bodies yet,” she thumps her fist down on the built-in toolbox in the bed of the truck with a wicked smile on her lips.   
“Don’t get caught. This ain’t Mexico.”  
“It sure ain’t,” winking before she turns to get in the cab.  
“They’re throwing me a party tomorrow at the Alibi. You should…”  
“I’ll find you,” she promises before she swings her long-legged self into the driver’s seat.  
“Coulda told me your wife was a fuckin’ goddess,” Ian hisses at his grinning boyfriend.  
“Yeah?” his eyebrows are risen in a challenge, “I dare ya to tell her that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, here's the thing. If I had started this with a season 4/5 Mickey, I'd never have introduced a female love interest. But after the whole seducing a female prison guard in season 7's escape, I felt like it rooted the idea that maybe he could be bisexual. I guarantee if this guard was willing to give up her job, well-being, healthcare, career path, possibly fuck herself over for life - then Mickey did a whole lot more than just wink at her. And no one was holding a gun to his head this time.   
> I also have this wish for Mickey to be absolutely smothered in love. Just completely smothered in it. More than one person can manage, even if one person is his soulmate and the other is his guardian angel.   
> If you've come this far with me, thank you again!


	22. Missed That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night at the Alibi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another reason I made Lou a girl is because I wanted something enough different from Ian that it wouldn't threaten their existing relationship. Someone who can live outside the boundaries that Ian is limited to. Such as being tied so tightly to his family, he's tied to Chicago, he's weighed down by his mental disorder and a criminal record.   
> If Lou was a guy, which originally in my mind she was, then Mickey never would have left Mexico, and maybe I'll write one someday where he doesn't leave.

Missed That

Every head in the place turned when she walked in. Swelling a strange pride in Mickey’s chest to see it. He was used to it to certain extent with Ian. But with Ian, he knew that eventually he would sleep with one of those random strangers checking him out in a bar. With Lou, that is nowhere near the case. Quite the opposite in fact.   
She’s sitting on a barstool rolling a joint with Kermit and Tommy practically drooling staring at her legs. Without a word she turns her head, giving them both a once over and a perfected death stare. They look away. She keeps glaring. She keeps glaring until they both get up and move to the other end of the bar. And then she winks at them.   
“You know,” Kev leans against the bar near her, “you can’t just smoke that in here.”  
“Glaucoma,” she snorts before she takes a long toke, passing it across the bar to him.   
To his credit, he at least debates for a split second before taking a hit, “holy shit,” he coughs, “that is some good shit.”  
“Mmhmm,” she nearly purrs it. Without turning her head to see him nearing, she hands it over her shoulder to Mick. Inhaling, holding it until his forehead is leaned into the back of her neck. Exhaling slowly against her bare skin. Fuck, she looks gorgeous. He’d say it, but he knows he’d receive a right hook for his efforts. She’s still wearing the same clothes she was wearing in the parking lot yesterday. Goddamn it felt good to lay eyes on her. Lookin’ healthy, alive. Nothing like when he left.  
“Missed that,” he admits, leaning his back against the bar in front of her.   
“Couldn’t get good weed at the Ritz pretty boy?” her right eyebrow is arced, looking him over.  
“Nothin’ like that,” he was only partially talking about the weed being what he missed. Scanning over her features and loving every line on her face.   
She gives him a half nod, daring him to say what he’s thinking.   
“Te extrano,” he admits. He’d admit it in English, doesn’t care who hears it. But since this is the place where he came out as gay, he just doesn’t want to get into it. Dealing with Ian’s reaction to all of this is enough, he doesn’t need the usuals at the Alibi giving him shit too.  
“Si, si, jodete,” cocky smirk following, the galaxy in her eyes is spinning with amusement.  
“How long you been in Chicago?”  
Shrug, “not long.”  
“Got a place to stay?”  
“‘Course.”  
There are at least a million things he wants to say to her. And about a million he can think to do to her. She doesn’t want to hear ‘em. And this ain’t the place to do ‘em.   
“Okay,” she breaks the silence and the stare-off, “get back to guano over there before his stare bores holes into the back of my head.”  
“He’ll figure it out.”   
Yesterday was not what Mickey wanted. But he did it because Ian needed it. He was practically spinning out all day. Even after breakfast and his usual meds. They took the longest walk in the history of walks, thinking fresh air and movement would do them both some good. They ended up at some stupid street festival for awhile. Finally after dinner and another dose of meds he seemed nearly on plane. Enough that Mick agreed to his hotel room idea. But after one round of overly aggressive sex on a not-so-ready Mickey, he convinced Ian to take the damn sedative. The best part of the day was when he finally fell asleep. Bashful and annoyingly apologetic this morning all Mickey wanted to do was get out of that damn hotel room. At least he seemed to have evened out throughout the course of today. Seemed happy to play some pool and throw some darts at the bar tonight.   
“Alright, alright,” he cracks under her gaze, “but your ass is playin’ the next round,” backing away with one eyebrow raised.  
“That’ll be interesting,” she mumbles.   
“She can come over here,” Ian attempts a smile when Mick returns to his side.  
“When she’s ready,” resting his hand on the small of Ian’s back. HIs gaze staying on Lou for long enough to know Kev is giving the old song and dance about having to buy something if she’s going to take up real estate at the bar. And she’s giving him shit about there not being any demand for said real estate. Mick’s attention turns back to the game at hand, knowing she’s probably working out a strategy to get more people in this shit-hole.   
This can be okay. She’s a chameleon, she can fit in anywhere if she wants to. And he wants her to. Being near her again, it’s like breathing. No overthinking, no stressing about whether he’ll have to walk on eggshells or not. Having her here with him, in any capacity, could make the difference in his relationship with Ian. Watching Ian, he knows there is no way in hell he’ll give him up. He’ll withstand the storm of his disorder. He’ll take whatever Ian can throw at him, and he’ll do his best to keep him on an even keel. He spent a lot of time reading during his work study. He discovered he kinda sorta likes reading. A person can find a lot of good shit in books if they look hard enough. He spent some time reading up on bipolar disorder. And Monday he’s going to start looking at support groups in the area. Whether he can convince Ian to go has yet to be seen, but he’ll go. Talking this shit through with people who have experienced something other than Monica, it’ll help. Ian’s not Monica and Mickey isn’t sure his siblings understand that.   
Getting Ian out of the Gallagher house won’t hurt either. Fuck, if his old man was still in the can, he’d fix that shit-hole up real quick. But he ain’t going anywhere near that fuckin’ place. Not ’til Terry breaks his probation again. A faggot snitch of a son, not much scared him in Mexico. Not much scared him in prison this go ‘round. But the feel of that man’s presence makes Mick’s blood turn cold.   
Gaze quickly drawn to the place where an impressive whoop was just sounded. It came from Kev. And it was directed at Mick’s wife. She’s got shot glasses lined up and bottles flying through the air. Sitting on the barstool all calm as fuck. A joint pinched in the corner of her lips. Juggling glass bottles and pouring shots. Sliding ‘em down the bar. Mickey can’t help but grin at the display. Remembering that cantina in Puerto Vallarta. She was on fire that night. So was the booze.


	23. I'll Fuck You Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return of a past monster.

I’ll Fuck You Up

He swallows the last of what’s left in his pint. Standing outside the Alibi in the heat of the summer night. High temperatures clinging even in the darkness. He knows what’s through that door. And he knows what he’s going to do. He never should have let that runt live. All he’s ever caused his family is embarrassment. He has no business wearing the Milkovich name. He never did. Especially now that he’s a snitch. Pathetic little piece of shit. He never could hold his own. Of course he couldn’t hold his own against a Mexican cartel, had to take the easy way out.  
He pushes the door open to take in the usuals in their usual spots. A bunch of fuckin’ Gallaghers and neighborhood shit-heads crowding up the back of the place. That faggot ginger bitch easy to find in a crowd. His poor excuse for a son must be nearby. That disgusting unnatural creature must have come from his weak wife’s side only. Milkoviches aren’t queer and they aren’t snitches.   
‘I’ll fuck you up you little runt,’ he thinks as he spots his son’s dark hair and thick shoulders from behind. HIs eyes land on the woman next to him. She must be some kind of dyke with that short hair cut. Probably never had a real man fuck her, he’ll change that. As soon as he takes care of business.   
His faggot son tells the woman something and starts towards the far side of the pool table as she leans forwards to take a shot. That ass. Fuck, he’ll bury his meat between those thighs. It’s been far too long since he’s had fresh pussy. He’ll turn this dyke straight. No doubt about that.   
It’s just crowded enough in here that he can make his way over without being spotted. Since his runt is on the far side of the table, he has to stop en route to make a promise to the woman. Stepping into her ass as she’s still bent over lining up her shot. He grinds into her, taking hold of her neck to force her to stand, whispering into her ear as his son’s eyes make contact with his own, “I’m ‘onna fuck the lesbian outta you. Soon as I take care of a rat problem,” he licks her ear and watches a cocky little sneer rise on his son’s face. His hands folded into nonchalant fists, rising to show Terry his FUCK U-UP. A silent promise from a steely gaze before the world goes dark.


	24. Tell Me To Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just taking out some trash.

Tell Me to Leave

Mickey doesn’t react right away. Feeling a laugh part his lips, watching his wife knock his old man’s lights out in one punch. A few guys, including Ian, had taken a step towards Terry as soon as he pressed against her back. But not Mick. He knew she had herself handled.   
Now he’s only making a move because she’s removing a knife from her boot. Some people around them cheered and clapped when she downed him. Mickey ain’t the only person ‘round here that hates that piece of shit.   
She squats next to his unconscious mass, reaching for his right hand, focusing on the pinky. But Mick grabs her wrist, “this ain’t Mexico,” he reminds her with a grin.  
“Just the tip,” she promises, her eyes rising to meet his.  
He doesn’t vocally respond.  
She rolls her eyes at his expression, like he’s dealing with an obstinate toddler, “pinky toe then?”  
“No,” but he laughs at her persistence anyway.  
“Fine,” twirling the knife before she closes it, shoving it back in her boot, “who’s this trash belong to?”  
HIs hand rubs the length of his face before he admits, “that’s my dad.”  
Disbelief crosses her face before anger flares. Her hand making a quick move for her knife he reaches for her again, “don’t,” warning gently. She’s the only person on the planet aside from the two of them that know the full extent of the damage Terry inflicted on Mickey throughout the years. And she has every reason to be angry. Part of him wants to let her go on a hate-fueled kill. But he can’t bear the thought of her being taking away from him, “too many witnesses,” kneeling next to her.  
She stays silent for a moment, staring at his eyes. Reading his emotions before rolling her eyes and wondering, “well I gotta take the trash out myself, or what?”  
“‘Course you don’t.”  
When he’s deposited inside the dumpster out back, she lights the joint she had tucked behind her ear. Leaning back against the building, Mickey follows her lead. Tucked between two dumpsters, her head tilted skyward for a moment. She won’t find stars. Not here. Not until she turns to look at the man beside her.   
“Glad you’re here,” he tells her gently, accepting the joint when she hands it over.  
“Yeah, well,” exhaling pungent smoke between them.  
“Gonna stay for awhile?” trying to keep hope from showing in his face.  
Her gaze stays steady on his. Long enough that he watches her galaxy and wonders how it’s possible that a woman this incredible could ever be standing here next to him. She presses her lips together gently, her voice barely above a whisper, “I”m only here for one reason pretty boy,” pausing long enough to take another toke. Her focus on his eyes never faltering, a dare parting her lips, “tell me to leave.”


	25. An Accidental Voyeur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandy returns to Chicago and witnesses some dumpster sex.
> 
> Warning: Cheating involved

An Accidental Voyeur 

She gets out of the Uber in front of the neighborhood bar. Feeling out of place and awkward. Even after the bottle of wine she consumed alone she’s still not ready to go in. She stops under a streetlight to light a cigarette. She quit smoking, but here she is in Southside again for an hour and she’s already made her way through half a pack. It’s not that she doesn’t want to be there for her brother. And her former best friend. She just doesn’t want to be here. Of all places. And she doesn’t want Mickey to be here anymore. Damn it if he didn’t sound so fucking comfortable with himself when he was in Mexico. Sure, their conversations were short and rare. They were secretive and coded. But she could hear his smile through the phone line every single time they spoke. A smile that was so rare here in this bleak city.  
“Fuck Chicago,” she sighs to herself. Finishing the nicotine stick and promising herself she’ll never smoke another.  
She hears the door to the bar swing open and ducks quickly into the alley. Shit, her hands are shaking and her legs feel like Jell-O. Ian promised that Lip wasn’t going to be here. But can she really chance it? She has no desire to lay eyes on that self-centered asshole ever again in her life. Especially now. Seeing her brother face to face for the first time in seven years. God, how did seven years go by that fast? And how had she abandoned him like that?  
She didn’t want to leave with Kenyatta. But it was the only way out at that point. And she had to get out. Always feeling like she was standing on the tracks staring at the train approaching. She knew it was Mick who fucked up Kenyatta the night before they left. She knew her brother’s trademark when she saw it. Guess that big stupid fucker took whatever Mick said seriously because he never hit her again. All the times they protected each other. And the only times that mattered the most were the ones they couldn’t.  
She can still hear him. His voice, words slurred, stumbling into the house at night, “I’m ‘onna fuck you up Mickey,” promising before he followed through on it. He said it to all of them at some point. But he only really meant it when it said it to Mickey. Sure, they’d all been belted. Pounded with fists. But the amount of times Mick was stuck in bed for the day, her eyes fill at the thought. Remembering days he’d have to stay home from school. Days upon days. If he’d gone they’d have called DCFS. And it would have been Mick’s fault they were separated. Some days he’d ask what he missed. Some days he wouldn’t say a word. He’d not move. Staying on his side, back towards the door. Those were the nights she’d sneak into his room. Lie on her back behind him. Listen to him breathe.  
He was fourteen when he tattooed his own knuckles. With those words that must have struck fear into his very core. He was taking them from their father. Making them his own. Making them something small that he could print on his fingers, put in a proverbial box and make them meaningless. Or make them a source of fear for someone else. But Mick never hit anyone out of pleasure. Not like Terry did. It was only ever business with Mickey.  
“Fuck,” she runs her fingers through her hair. Trying to remember how he sounded when she talked to him yesterday. She told him she couldn’t come home this weekend. Home. That word was so heavy. She told him she wouldn’t be here. He tried to hide the disappointment in his voice. It didn’t work.  
“One more,” she promises herself, then they’re going in the trash. Lighting a smoke. She’ll finish it. Then she’ll go in the backdoor of the bar. At least that way she can find him first. She can wrap her arms around him and take a breath of his distinct odor. Oh god, she hopes he still smells the same. Even when they were kids and he’d go for days without a shower, he still distinctively smelled like Mick. And that smell was always a comfort. Even when she was the one that was supposed to be doing the comforting.  
She stops at the backdoor. Leaning on the wall beside it. Taking a long time to savor this smoke. The smell of the cigarette much better than the odors of this city. She has to be able to look at him without crying. She has to be able to put the space between them into a minuscule meaningless lapse. She takes a deep breath and holds it. What was that noise? Her head turns towards the sound of a voice. Is that Spanish? It’s hushed, whispered, breathy. Through the space between the dumpster and the wall she can make out a figure. A woman, her head back against the wall, eyes open, laser focused on something in front of her. Her lips press together tightly and she shudders.  
Mandy leans a little for a better angle. This is just dumpster sex, nothing out of the ordinary for these parts. But there’s something about it that’s holding her attention. Something incredibly tender in the woman’s gaze. Something soulful and aching. Like whoever she’s looking at is someone she can’t bear to look away from. Even in the grip of climax her eyes refuse to close.  
The woman’s thigh is pressed between her and a man’s arm. Both the leg and the arm are muscled and shiny with sweat in the heat of the night. She whispers something in Spanish, another shudder racing through her and the man exhales heavily. Releasing the leg, his forehead meets hers. Their eyes locked onto one another. Their lips don’t meet but the way their faces are touching it seems more intimate than any kiss ever could. Mandy leans again, gaining an angle on the man’s face.  
Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh shit. That’s her brother. Oh shit. Oh no. She just watched her brother fuck some woman behind a dumpster. But that didn’t look like fucking. That wasn’t just fucking. That looked like there could have been zombies crawling out of the dumpsters they’re sandwiched between, reaching for their ankles, biting at their legs; and they wouldn’t have noticed. They wouldn’t have noticed if the building behind them crashed down to nothing but brick and mortar. They wouldn’t have noticed if the pope himself was watching the show. There was nothing else in those moments. There’s still nothing else. They’re still locked onto each other’s eyes. Breathing each other’s air. Her brother’s hand rises, FUCK sliding across her neck, resting on her jaw as his thumb traces her cheek.  
Why can’t she look away from this? This is so wrong. This is so disgusting. And so wrong. But it’s so fucking beautiful. So fucking raw and intimate. It’s lustful but restrained. She has an urge to shout ‘kiss her’, they so clearly both want it. She has an urge to run into the bar and tell Ian that his boyfriend just fucked a woman beside the dumpster. But Mick looks so peaceful. So comfortable. So…  
“Fuck, you feel good.”  
Jesus Mick. She rolls her eyes to herself, quietly making her way to the far side of the third dumpster in a row of fucking dumpsters. The whole city is lined with fucking refuse.  
“You just gotta ruin everything by opening that pretty mouth of yours,” the woman sighs.  
Well, she just watched them make love she might as well listen to their private conversation. Doubting it will amount to anything more than Mickey’s foul mouth and maybe a snide comment or two.  
“You good?” he wonders gently.  
“Mmhmm.”  
“You sure? You seem a little off balance.”  
“You’re the one shaking,” she accuses, “I’m fine. I mean I’m not a fuckin’ gynecologist but I don’t think virginity can grow back. Even after three years of celibacy.”  
Holy fuck that’s some dedication. Forget Ian, he couldn’t be faithful for like three minutes much less three years! But Mickey’s gay. Isn’t he? Sure, he was married to a woman before, knocked her up and all. Sure, he had girls over when they were teenagers. And he had sex with all the girls in their grade that all the guys in their grade had sex with. And then he had Ian. Probably had some fucks in juvie. And the only person he spoke of from Mexico was a guy named Lou. But he never said more than little things here and there, never really admitted to a relationship of any kind with him. Only that Lou was some kind of badass who was teaching him shit he never thought he was capable of. A mentor. Someone he truly respected and trusted.  
“You comin’ back in?”  
“Nah. I go back in there tonight I can kiss three years of sobriety goodbye.”  
He sighs, it’s heavy with a decision he doesn’t want to make. She can hear him scrubbing his face with his hands.  
“Your ginger in there is going to reach epic levels of guano if you don’t go back,” she urges with a smile in her voice. Mandy smiles to herself and decides she’s going to meet this woman.  
“Can I…”  
“I’ll find you pretty boy. Good night.”  
“I know,” there’s that light in his voice, the lightness she saw in his face a moment ago, “Night Lou.”  
What?!  
The door opens. Then closes. The woman sighs. And now it sounds like she’s climbing into the dumpster. What the fuck? She rummages around for a moment before climbing back out.  
Mandy watches from her shadowed corner as she walks by. Um, she’s fucking gorgeous. From head to toe. And she’s wiping a bloody knife blade on a napkin. Tossing it in the dumpster that Mandy was using as cover. She keeps walking.  
This might be her only chance. She steps out, not thinking very hard about it. Still feeling the buzz from her bottle of wine earlier as she wobbles slightly getting to her feet, “Lou?”  
She doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t turn her head, “Mandy.”  
“How the fuck…”  
“Enjoy the show?”  
“What?! No, I…”  
“Relax, he didn’t notice.”  
“But, I was just…”  
“An accidental voyeur.”  
“Um,” she’s glad for the darkness as a blush is rising. But Milkoviches don’t blush, “I just…”  
“Haven’t seen your brother in seven years. Couldn’t quite gather the gall to do it yet. Needed a smoke and,” now she turns. Clearly appraising Mandy’s movements, “a bottle of wine.”  
“No that’s not how this works. You don’t get to judge me…”  
She grunts. Loud enough to disturb Mandy’s train of thought.  
“What?”  
“Can take the girl out of the Milkovich house of horrors, but can’t take the Milkovich out of the girl.”  
“How do you even know who I am?”  
She stops suddenly. Turning to look at her, amusement sparkling in her gaze, “buen material genetico.”  
“The fuck that mean?”  
“New York must be treating you well. Living outside the city? Out where the air is clean. And you can see the stars at night.”  
“How the fuck…”  
“Go,” she smiles. It’s real, “hug your brother. Yes, he still smells like Mickey.”  
————  
Terry Milkovich awakens in a pile of garbage. His head pounding. His vision blurring. His hand comes up to his forehead, meeting an object. Peeling it off his skin. His eyes barely focusing, just enough to see that it’s a used condom. He flicks it away with a disgusted grunt and sits up. Head swimming with blurred memories of last night. How did he end up here? Last thing he remembers is running his hand down the thigh of some dyke in the bar. And the look in his son’s eyes as he did it. He stands up in the pile of rubbish. Putting both hands on the edge of the dumpster. Looking down in shock when he can’t bend his right pinky around the ledge. He can’t bend it because it’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I lose everyone? Or shall I carry on?  
> Don't worry, we'll get back to Gallavich soon enough if you can have some patience and some faith in me to get us there with good reason for this encounter.
> 
> I might be adding some depth to the brother/sister relationship, and I hated that they never had Mickey do anything about Kenyatta.


	26. The Sky And A Million Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A helpful reminder from way back in chapter 10: “Just a piece of paper Mick?” his arms crossed over his chest, anger still flared in his eyes while he studies Mickey’s face.  
> “No,” answering honestly, “not at all.”

The Sky And A Million Stars

“Tell me to leave.”  
Reaching for her face. Both hands. Framing her face in the pale glow of the streetlights.   
Her hands are on his belt. Her face tilts, dropping into his neck. Nose rubbing his collarbone. A shiver down his spine.  
————  
Waves gentle. Rocking the paddle board. Lulling, peaceful. He watches the sky. Not a cloud in sight. Of all the things in the world, of all the places he could have ended up. This is where he is. Lying on a paddle board in the ocean watching the blue sky.   
“The fuck you doin?” when the board starts rocking.  
Her face appears above his, a smile as she brushes her nose against his. A million stars in her eyes, “ready for this pretty boy?”  
His hands rise, sliding through her hair, holding her face above his. Near, so near. He nods.  
The stars disappear. The sky reappears.   
“Face down. Ass up. Just like you like it.”  
“Yeah yeah okay,” turning on the board, feeling a little insecure, a little wobbly, “funny.”  
She’s right next to him, doing the same thing. Snorkel and mask. Face in the water. A brand new universe beneath them. Bright, colorful. Incredible. Suddenly everything inside him feels at peace. Every fiber of his being giving way to this place. His left hand slides across the board until his fingers meet hers. Turning over, slipping under. Palm to palm. Her fingers bend around his and goddamn if he can’t smile comfortably around that snorkel.   
————  
Her skin beneath his hands. Warm, glazed in sweat. Her breath on his neck. Even through the rubber she asked him to wear she feels so fuckin’ good. Kissing her neck. Taking her leg in his hand to pull her pelvis as close as possible. She shudders, clenching around him. He opens his eyes, meeting hers in the darkness. Keeping his focus steady on her. There’s comfort in her eyes, a comfort and peaceful calm he’s never felt anywhere else.  
“Yo también te extrane,” she whispers. I missed you too, it jolts right through him like lightening. Touching that part inside that he found in Mexico. He releases his breath and her leg. Leaning to rest against her forehead without releasing her gaze. It’s right there on the tip of his tongue. It’s right there in her eyes.   
————  
The paddle board against his back. Feet in the water. Rocking with waves, rocking with her rhythm. The sun sinking low over the ocean. Lighting her in a perfect glow. Keeping his eyes open though the tingling racing through his body is trying to force otherwise. Wanting to imprint this image in his brain. Knowing eventually this moment will end. It will go away. Like every good thing that has ever been a part of Mickey’s life. She’ll be gone. It’s inevitable. But this moment. It can stay forever. She leans towards him. Behind her, the sky, and a million stars in her eyes.   
They lie on their backs, feet hanging off opposite ends of the board, hands lazily paddling towards shore. Occasionally brushing fingertips to fingertips in the water. Her head is propped on his shoulder, his on hers. The sun disappearing behind the horizon. Lighting up the sky above and around them in a brilliant sunset. Reflecting off the ocean that seems to never end.   
“Ready to tie the knot Mr. Richards?”  
The reservation they conned their way into included a private wedding on the beach. Why waste it?  
“Fuck it,” he sighs, his hand finding hers in the salty water and gripping tightly, “only live once.”  
————  
The door of the Alibi closes behind his back and the breath leaves his body. When that green galaxy he thought he’d spend every day for eternity staring into lands on his face his guts clench. Holding his expression together long enough to give him a nod and duck into the bathroom. He won’t touch a god with the scent of a goddess still on his hands.   
Fuck, fuck, fuck.   
Yesterday he walked out of prison. He felt freedom for the first time in over three years. His heart was thumping to rhythm of Ian, Ian, Ian as he neared him. The sun was too hot, the air was too thick, the feeling of having his life back was stifling and overwhelming. But he was feeling, touching, and smelling Ian. And that was all he needed. He was tasting him and letting that familiar fire race through his veins. He felt destroyed and resurrected at the same time. With every eager jab of Ian’s tongue he remembered every single fucking time he wanted this and was too weak to take it. But with every eager jab it felt too eager. And he felt the weight and the pain of a manic episode taking root in his lover’s chest. And through the blood rushing in his ears he heard the desperate chanting - I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. Being mashed against his mouth, his lips, his teeth.   
Fuck it if he didn’t want to roll with it. Let it go, let Ian fly. Let him feel the heat of his body and fire of his passion to the absolute full extent. Fuck bipolar. Fuck the meds. Fuck the doctors. And the literature, and the people who dedicated so much time to researching the mysteries that happen inside someone else’s head. How could anyone outside of it ever understand it? How could anyone around it ever understand it? Even the person experiencing it. The mysteries of the human brain.  
And he couldn’t chance it. He couldn’t chance the theft of an aircraft. Or the making or a porno. Or the kidnapping of a baby. Fuck, the start of a religious movement. Fuck.  
So he pulled back. And he breathed. He forced some breath between them. He forced some grounding, all the while convincing himself it was best. It was best to take this slow. They had always been so good at rushing. There was never a question of chemistry, passion, lust between them. Their’s was always a question of stability. At that moment it was what they both needed desperately.   
And that was okay. Forcing a breath was okay. It wasn’t breathing but it was okay. It was still living. And it was still a galaxy with a million stars and a million opportunities. And he’d never need to lay a fucking blanket out to look for them.   
But goddamnit if he didn’t lay eyes on Lou for the first time in over three years and fucking breathe. Breathing like a person should. Like it’s not a conscious choice that he has to make with every single inhale and exhale.   
He was holding Ian’s hand and feeling the fire engulfing his entire body. He was looking at Lou and feeling the safety of her bubble surrounding the three of them and calming the crashing of the waves that were relentlessly rolling him in a tide of worry and fear.   
And Gay Jesus Fucking Christ if that seven year old sitting in a puddle of his own piss at the kitchen table in his home watching his only version of love being turned into nothing but blood, bone, and brain matter; didn’t feel it too. Maybe this was the fate of a boy born of a woman who loved too much and a man who didn’t love at all. Maybe this was just how his life would be. He’d never be loved and he’d never love until it all happened to hard and too fast and too much all at once. And he’d never be able to untangle any of it, it would suffocate him like that plastic bag his father put over Mandy’s kitten’s head when Mickey was five. And he watched it’s eyes through that plastic because Milkoviches aren’t pussies and this is what happened to pussies, and his kids needed to know that. They needed to feel that and watch it happen. They needed to learn young and quick if they were to survive in this cruel world.   
He splashes cold water on his face in the bathroom sink. Avoiding the mirror. He can’t look at himself right now. He can’t face himself. He can’t face Ian. He’ll tell him. He’d walk in that fucking bar right now and shout it across the room if he thought it would make a fucking difference. But it won’t make a fucking difference because of all the shit they’ve put each other through never once has one of them fallen in love with someone else without falling out of love with the other. There were always things keeping them apart. At every single turn in their relationship from start to finish. If it wasn’t Kash and Mickey’s homophobia. If it wasn’t a geriatric viagroid and Mickey’s inability to just kiss Ian. If it wasn’t his fucking father who wanted him dead from the day he was born and that Russian whore. And if his dad had known it was love and not just a fuck, he’d have killed them both without blinking.  
All those years that Mickey had pushed Ian away. All those times he had tried to hide the way he felt about him. He was right. He was always right to push him away. There are two kinds of Southsiders. The ones that stand a chance and the ones that will always just be Southside trash, fucked for life. Fuck, he wasn’t about to be the grip on Ian’s ankles as he tried to climb his way out of this shitpile. He was headed for Westpoint, he was going to make it out alive. He was going to do something honorable and who was Mickey to fall in love with him and make him change his mind? Who was Mickey to tell him to stay instead of getting on that bus to the enlist? Enlisting wasn’t officer’s school but it was still a ticket out of this shitstained side of town.  
And what? If he told him the truth, if he said it, instead of kicking him in the teeth, what would come of it? I love you and I’ll ruin you because I’ll always be me and I’ll always be trash. But the one thing I won’t do is walk away from my unborn child. And I’ll drag you down with me if I admit it. Because it’ll make you stay. And as much as I want that, I never want that. I never want to be the anchor holding you to the ground, leaving you stagnant and still. Ripe for the taking by the bottom-feeders and scum-suckers of this town and this whole goddamned world.   
Fuck. If all the pushing didn’t turn around and fuck him over even more. A manic episode in the Army. Ruining the one chance he had at making it out. It was easy to find him. It was easy to read Lip’s worry and concern when he came asking around about Ian. It was easy to acquiesce to Mandy’s demands. Because he wanted to. Because he wanted to be the one to bring Ian back if he needed it. If he was in trouble he wanted to be the one to reach out a hand. To pull him off the ship before it sunk.   
What happened then? Then he tried too fucking hard. He loved too fucking hard and he was too fucking blind to understand Fiona when she tried, she tried to tell him it would get too fucking hard. He didn’t understand it because love is fucking hard. Love it too fucking hard. And he’d be damned if he’d let it go without a fight. A real fight. Fuck he loved a fight back then, a good hard ass-kicking, but this was a fight that two young boys were not ready for.   
Love is fire. And love is ice. It is pain. it is pleasure. It is the ends of the earth and the beginning of a universe. It is where the ocean meets the land. Where the sky meets the heavens. Where the burning center of Earth erupts to the surface, suffocating everything in it’s path. It’s where the hurricane touches down and rips apart the land.   
Maybe someone stronger can withstand that storm.   
Fuck.   
Or maybe Lou was right. Everything you love will kill you one day. The booze, the pills, the dust. The fights. The boy with the hypnotic eyes. Pick your poison. And make it count.  
She forgot to mention the girl with the hypnotic eyes.  
He exits the bathroom. But can’t face it yet. Maybe he can just sneak out the back door, he can text Ian that he wasn’t feeling well and wanted to head home. He stops in the doorway. Watching these people having fun. They’re laughing. They’re smiling. To them, the world is not closing in around them every single fucking second of every single day. Or is it? Is it just how life works? And they’ve just figured out how to block out the noise.   
Mickey has spent his entire life standing on a cliff. The rocks at his feet crumbling. The sky dark, angry. Thunder rolling and shaking him. Sparks of lightening crackling across the darkness. Wind whipping cold rain into his face, stinging like a million needles on his bare flesh. Two times those clouds were punctured by a ray of sunshine. Two times. And both times they flashed hot, bright, and magnificent. Weakening his flesh, opening his eyes to the brilliance of the world around him. Forcing him to see beyond the grey abyss that was his life. Forcing him to see something, anything inside of himself that was worth keeping.   
And look at Ian. He’s smiling. He’s having a good time. He’s taking classes and staying on his meds. He’s balanced and the only thing that’s thrown him off in the last year is the presence of Mickey. Teetering on the brink just yesterday. It was Mick’s fault. It’ll be Mick’s fault when he tells him that he just fucked his wife. And he still has feelings for her. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want her to snake her way into his mind. What happened to her while he was gone? She got sober. For probably the first time since she was twelve.   
So if their lives are better without him, why is he here? Why can’t he just step off the side of that fucking cliff he’s been balancing on for so fucking long that his feet have become the crumbling rocks. His body has become the storm and the people he loves have turned into blood, bone, and brain matter that he’s cleaning off the kitchen floor. Where does it end?  
A glass shatters on the barroom floor. Shattering something in his mind. That sound. It’s something fine and delicate being destroyed. That sound is something he’s always loved and it’s been far too long since he’s heard it. It’ll be easy enough to find a crow bar, or a tire iron, or a baseball bat. He’ll go to one of the new hipster paradises that are popping up all over the Southside still. He’ll shatter the glass. And a few kneecaps. And he’ll be back where he belongs. Back where he can’t hurt the people he loves. He’ll see them through the plexiglass from time to time but he can’t touch them. He can’t burn his flesh against theirs. He can’t turn them to ash. Fuck, maybe he’ll run into his old man in the joint, only a matter of time before he breaks probation again. And he’ll get himself a life sentence. It’ll be easy then to say ‘No Mick. No I won’t wait. I won’t wait’.   
He smiles this time when Ian looks his way. Ian tilts his head, motioning him over, but Mick doesn’t move. What you and I have makes me free, but it traps you for eternity. Maybe in another lifetime. Maybe in an alternate universe. Maybe on the fifth star in the galaxy in those green eyes. Maybe that’s the place.   
It’s time. Time to take that step. He hopes it’s rocky as hell at the bottom. Make it fuckin’ quick. Because if love is pain, then he’ll never stop hurting Ian. And he’ll never stop hurting Lou.  
Before he can turn around, a set of skinny arms wraps around his chest. A cheek meets his shoulder blade, the smell of cheep wine, cigarettes, and cotton candy wafts into his nostrils. And maybe love is as simple as wrapping your arms around someone when they’re about to step off a cliff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone honestly think I'd take the marriage option off the table for these two? Mickey will explain his use of the term wife later on. 
> 
> So I added the last section today after taking into consideration some feedback I received, sorry if it's a little wordy and maybe a little off course or not quite fitting with the chapter, but it felt like throwing in some substantial stuff from Mickey's perspective might ease some of the tension, or create different tension, or at least bring his confusion and battling emotions a little more to focus.


	27. A Puppet And His Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit of breakfast. Oh and job interview. And a course schedule.

A Puppet and His Master

She can tell he’s nervous. The way his hands keep rising to touch his face. She only volunteered to come along because she wasn’t sure how his relationship with Svetlana was. She agreed to let him meet with Yevgeny. Guess Mick had been sending money and cards while in Mexico. Not that she needed the money. And no one would have been surprised if she had been tossing the cards in the trash. He never asked her to bring Yev for a prison visit, knowing it’d be too hard for both of them. He didn’t want to lay eyes on his son for the first time in years through plexiglass. Mandy was certain of that.   
So they’ve been waiting in the diner for what feels like an hour, though it’s only been about twenty minutes. While Mickey touches his face nervously. Ian’s hand resting on the back of his neck, giving a reassuring squeeze every now and again. Mandy never thought she’d see the day her brother would let his boyfriend be affectionate in public. There are about a million things about him that have surprised the hell out of her in the few hours she’s been near. Lou was, however, right. What she told her last night. Yes he still smells like Mick.   
She’s not sure what Ian knows, she’s not been alone with Mick yet to confront him about last night. And it’s not her place to just tell Ian. Well, not until she pinches some explanation from her brother anyway. She knows him well enough to know he’s never stopped loving Ian. Even if he’s started loving someone else too. But that’s between the three of them she supposes. Oh and they’re all fucked. For sure. She can’t picture them figuring out a way to sort their emotions without throwing punches.   
His eyes soften when the door of the place opens. Ian’s narrow momentarily before closing long enough to gather himself. Mandy wishes she had taken the side facing the door but Mickey wanted to see them coming. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves stirring in her own stomach now. Before she can turn her head, a warm body is beside her in the booth. Her brother’s face reveals who it is without having to look. That calm in his eyes, that deep comfortable calm.  
She doesn’t bother with any greetings, reaching across the table to take a drink of Mick’s coffee, “tomorrow ‘leven clock,” pulling a business card out of her pocket, “don’t be late.”  
“Fuck’s this?”  
“A job interview.”  
“At a gym?”  
She nods, “MMA gym. Guy’s name’s Jordon,” she takes a piece of his plain toast, smearing strawberry jam on it, “and,” pulling a piece of folded up paper out of her pocket next. She sets it on top of his plate.   
“Fuck’s this?”  
“Your class schedule at Malcolm X this fall semester. Business/finance. Don’t like it? Change it for Winter semester. Your tuition is paid through the end of next year. All three of you can clear your schedules for Saturday,” taking another gulp of Mick’s coffee, giving it a disdainful glare, “wear hiking clothes, pack swim suits,” she slides out of the booth, “pick ya all up at Gallagher’s house. Eight.”  
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Mandy speaks up.   
Her eyes land on Mandy’s for the first time since she walked in, “your flight changed. You’ll be getting a notification, with an apology, and an upgrade to first class. You’re staying the week. Your boss is glad to hear you’re using some of your vacation time,” she winks, sauntering over to the counter.   
The table is left speechless. Watching as she converses with the waitress for a moment, it’s hard to look away from her. Even when she’s only doing something like picking up a tab at a diner.   
It’s Ian who breaks the silence at the table, “so you’re a puppet now, that it?” he wonders, a note of jealousy in his voice, “and she’s the master.”  
Mandy’s eyes wander out the window, hearing her brother’s voice, “no. Not at all. She’s…”  
She watches as an expensive car pulls up to the curb. The woman who just paid their tab stops beside it. Opening the door for the passenger. A boy, who is nearly eight years old, gets out. He carries himself like a spoiled rich kid. Mandy is going to have to dig deep today. This kid’s a pussy. Her brother’s son is a complete pussy. She can tell by looking at him.  
Lou is speaking to Svetlana now. Jesus, she looks ridiculous in her expensive clothes in this neighborhood. Mandy always thought Svetlana was pretty, never cared for the way she treated her brother. But then again she didn’t care for a single part of their relationship. She never understood it. Mickey was never the type to buy a hooker. So how the hell he ended up knocking up a Russian prostitute was beyond her. Probably some stupid fuckin’ present from Terry. She could hear him in her head even now, ‘celebrate this with some Russian pussy boys’. She didn’t spend much time at the Milkovich house during that time period. Even with the hectic mess of the Gallagher house, it was a home. The Milkovich house was never a home, not after their mother died.  
But as pretty and self-assured as Svetlana had always seemed, she looks dull and everything about her is unattractive standing next to Lou. All the money in the world can’t make a cold heart warm. For all intents and purposes Lou looks like she could be homeless. Worn out clothes, worn out boots. Smear a little dirt on her and she’d fit right in under the L. But her presence is undeniable. And her presence right now is making Svetlana look like a child playing dress-up.   
“Pulling all the right strings,” Mandy finishes her brother’s sentence as the two women outside shake hands and part ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to make Lou to be the greatest thing since sliced bread, but she's the influence that all Mickey superfans should be able to get on board with. When given the opportunity to make his own decisions, Mickey normally doesn't make the best ones, so she's just going to make a few key ones for him. And I'll reiterate that she has the resources to do so and isn't working within the same boundaries as Ian. We all know Ian would make these decisions for Mickey as well, but he's a little bound by his own circumstances.


	28. Just Jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a day to press the pause button on the emotions.

Just Jump

She stops suddenly. After a two hour drive and an hour long hike. Tilting her head back for a moment, taking a deep breath and veering off trail.   
“The fuck you goin’ now?”  
She doesn’t answer. He didn’t expect her to. When she pulled up to the curb in front of Gallagher’s house this morning the first thing he noticed were the wheels. Asking her if she stole it, she shrugged and said ‘ain’t stealin’ if the previous owner has ceased to exist.’ Second thing he noticed was how natural she looked standing in the streets of his hometown. And the third thing, shocked the hell out of him, was the kid sitting in the middle of the backseat. His kid. He nearly asked if she’d kidnapped him. Then decided he didn’t care. Kid is a whiny little bitch, only way to fix it is to spend some time out of his comfort zone. Turns out, hiking in the woods is well out of the little shit’s comfort zone.   
The sound of rushing water starts filtering into his ears, muting the whining of his son. She doesn’t stop moving towards the sound. Dropping her hiking pack as she’s moving. Tugging clothes off, a bathing suit underneath. He follows her lead. Not stifling the smile that’s rising. He doesn’t glance over the scars littering her back when they become visible. All he sees when her head turns is that fuckin’ galaxy. Spinning out of control when her gaze lands on his face.   
She steps out of her boots. Throwing a wink his way, both of them taking off at a sprint. He’s never been here, has no idea what he’s jumping into. But there’s a freedom in it. In that fall. That blank space where every uncertainty and every insecurity in his life dissipates.   
————  
Rocks under foot sharp. Hot in the midday’s heat. Ocean waves crashing the shore below them. She steps towards the ledge. Leaving him behind, feeling knots of worry and fear balling up in his stomach. He has no idea how to do this. He’s not even sure he can swim well enough, should he survive the fall, he’ll drown anyway.   
She grins, coming back to stand beside him. Her hand slides into his at his side, “no thinking,” she whispers, “just jump.”


	29. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little insight from Mandy and a discussion with Ian.

Scars

She couldn’t breathe for a moment when she watched him take his shirt off. Her brother has been covered in scars for as long as she can remember. Terry’s personal ashtray from the time he was born. His legs littered in proof of that. He never wore shorts. Ever. Even when it was swelteringly hot outside. The bullet scar in his thigh. From the incident and the Kash and Grab. The pellets in his right asscheek.  
Never a single scar from falling out of a tree. Or catching a line drive to the face. Or missing a ramp at the skate park. Those things were never a part of his life. The things that normal kids get their marks from. Mickey’s body has always been a map of hurt. The life he was born into, permanently embedded in his flesh.  
The only thing she can think that could leave a mark like that, queasy at the thought, is a whip. And the woman who brought them here has identical marks on her back. She’s horrified at the thought of seeing what could be on the front of their bodies.  
Her breath catches when they disappear. A splash echoing to her ears. But Mickey can’t swim. Neither can Mandy. Just another thing they never learned. Never had the opportunity.  
“Shit,” she hears herself curse relief when both of their voices sound off. The words crushed by the sounds of nature around them. She had never experienced the freedom of the world around her until she left Chicago. Living outside of New York, doing most of her work from home, she spends time in the fresh air, the green world every single day. She’s grown an appreciation for winter. Something she thought she’d never enjoy.  
Ian strides over to the ledge, looking down and wondering, “you learned how to swim?”  
“Fuck yes I did. Now jump firecrotch.”  
“Fuck no.”  
“C’mon.”  
“Fuck no.”  
“Fine tough guy. Grab the ladies and take the trail down.”  
Mickey will never be Terry, but he is going to toughen his son up. He is going to crack that rich pampered shell and open his eyes to the real world. He’s going to show him the scary things in life. Force him to see how the other half live. The world outside the walls of his mansion. She knows her brother well enough to know that he’d never put his son in danger, but he won’t stand back and watch him turn into a bitch either.  
Ian shrugs his broad shoulders towards Mandy, “I have no problem taking the easy way down,” as he stoops to gather the discarded clothing.  
“The easy way would probably be jumping,” she dares.  
His eyebrow arches just a little, that cocky little smirk of his rising on his face.  
“What? I can’t swim.”  
“Why do I get the feeling that’s going to change this afternoon?”  
The trail down is a bitch. Rocky and slippery. Splashes from the nearby waterfall making it easy to lose footing. And if that fucking kid whines one more time about the fuckin mud, she’s going to lose her shit.  
Mickey has made his way to shore by the time they get down there. He looks so fuckin’ relaxed she can’t help but feel it too. She also can’t help but notice the scars on his abdomen. Stabs most likely. Slightly relieved that the worst was already revealed. Whatever he went through in Mexico, he came out of it with something she’s never seen in him. Never at a single point in his life. Compete confidence and utter comfort in his own skin. He’s a man who is certain of who he is.  
His female partner is mysterious. But she clearly has his best interests in mind. And that makes her a pretty badass chick in Mandy’s mind.  
When his eyes rise to meet Ian’s, she sees that old spark. That one that has never faded. Fuck, he looks happy.  
She can’t help but wonder on the walk back out, hanging back purposely, taking a light hold on Ian’s elbow, “so, uh, cheating still just a usual day in the Southside, huh?”  
He looks sideways at her for a moment, trying to decide if she’s still his best friend from high school. She nods the go ahead to confide anything, “fuck. I don’t know.”  
“No?”  
He shrugs, that kind of dramatic theatrical shrug he has that conveys it’s really not at all a shrug, it’s a million thoughts racing through his head and he’s not sure he can find the words for it.  
“Do we know anyone who hasn’t cheated on their significant other at some point? Like married couples? Even Kev and V who I always thought were like the model of love and support. I heard about his stay at the dorms. Social media is a bitch. And what was the whole thruple thing with Svet? Is that cheating if it’s out in the open like that?”  
He sighs, chewing on the inside of his cheek before breathing, “Mickey,” with an anguished sigh, “the entire time we were official he never cheated. Never once. I did all the fuckin’ time.”  
“Hurts, doesn’t it?”  
“A lot,” his eyes fill but he blinks it away, “I mean I’d drown her, or run her over…” shooting an elbow into Mandy’s side.  
“Whatever. That bitch deserved it.”  
He laughs, that same musical laugh he’s always had. Like he’s a child stuck inside the body of a giant man and every once in awhile that child leaks out around the edges of his smile. It feels good, it feels good in her ears and it makes her smile. His biggest fear of being constantly medicated was always the lack of feeling. In the beginning, before it got really bad, she had the same fear. Thinking he’d be an empty shell. He’s not. She wonders if he knows that.  
He takes a deep breath, “but this bitch doesn’t deserve it,” he admits. His eyes wandering ahead on the trail. Watching Mickey’s shoulders as he talks to his son. Watching the woman before she disappears through the trees, around a bend in the trail, “I just can’t help but wonder what I have to offer Mickey anymore.”  
“What do you mean?” her stomach does a somersault, “love. Dummy. He loves you so much it nearly killed him.”  
“I know. It got him shot, beat by your dad, juvie, prison. Probably more.”  
“Not even that though,” she watches the side of his face for a moment, wondering how much he remembers from when he wasn’t getting out of bed for a month. How many days Mickey spent lying beside him. Not eating, not sleeping. Not speaking. Just lying there. His hand on the center of Ian’s back.  
He does. It flickers across his iris like a firefly at dusk, “I know. But that’s it, I have nothing to offer him. I’m a weight on his chest. That’s all.”  
“Don’t do that,” she lets her hand drop down into his, giving it a tight squeeze.  
“What? I am. At least Mickey knew me before the disease. At least he knows there’s still something in me worth keeping, under the meds and under the mania. Under the depression. There’s still something…”  
“That’s the disease talking Ian,” she doesn’t want to throw it in his face, but it’s something that needs to be addressed, “you are Ian. Bipolar is only one of the millions of things you are. It’s not the whole of you. It never will be.”  
“Yeah but a bipolar ex-con isn’t exactly a catch.”  
“Uh, in the Southside? That makes you a queen bitch.”  
His smile is sad, but at least it’s there, “fuck,” he sighs, “I don’t know Mandy. I want to be mad. About so much. I want to be mad that he’s married, and it’s a fucking woman. And I want to be mad that he slept with her. And I want to be mad that she’s taking care of him in ways that I can’t. I can barely afford my own tuition, no way I’d be able to afford his. I can’t find us an apartment within our price range, even in the dumps of our neighborhood. Sure, I’m keeping myself medicated and taking care of myself, I’m taking classes, and keeping up on my certifications, but what the hell happens next? Who’s going to hire me? How the hell will I ever have a real career now? I mean, here are my references: bailing on my EMT job to go manic, and my parole officer? Who? Linda? The Army? Oh the FairyTale will look really good on there,” he snickers, “and personal references even. Who the fuck am I going to put down for that? My old fucks? I fucked up any friendships I ever had with this last episode.”  
“Me,” she squeaks. He eyes her sideways and she defends, “I’m the only Milkovich without a criminal record. And I work an honest job now. That has nothing to do with putting out,” she adds with a wink, “so what are you gonna do Ian? Give up? Go off your meds and break probation, end up a homeless twink puttin’ out on the corner? Die in the gutters of AIDS or an OD?”  
“Fuck you,” he grunts at her, “I’m not going to give up.”  
“Good. Prove it,” when he turns to look at her, she adds with a perfected Milkovich smirk, “I dare ya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm a little torn here. I have to admit, the more I write Lou the more I want to keep her around for longer than originally planned. I feel like I could take two very different routes here. I almost want to go with the old school pick-your-ending books and reveal the last blurb from either ending and let you vote!  
> In either version the Mexico stuff will still get dark and horrific. And in either version that'll start being revealed soon. I'll have to take a break from posting pretty soon to get those storylines nailed down. But I will see the whole story through as long as I still have some interested readers.  
> Thanks again for your time!


	30. We Never Had That Fucking Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, they never had that fucking date. Fuck Sammi.

We Never Had That Fucking Date

Ian leans against the doorframe. Watching Mickey’s face, taken away with sleep. He’s expressionless, soft. Cast in the warm glow of a mid-summer’s morning light. Ian thinks he could stand here all day and watch him. Or maybe he should just get back in bed with him. Force his way back into Mickey’s arms, or his heart, or his mind. Or wherever he had lost him.  
He asked Ian to get to know her, to give her a chance. But then he slept with her. So now what? Is he supposed to just think they’ll hang out as friends and never sleep together again? How is he supposed to trust that?   
He’s willing to admit that she’s pushed her way into Mickey’s affairs and got him a job and enrolled him in school. She’s a good influence. She’s steady. She’s calming, easy going. Charming in some weird intimidating way.   
But where does this leave Ian? Where is there room if she’s all the things that Mickey needs at this point in his life?   
Fuck, he rubs his face with his hands a little vigorously. Leans down to the floor to grab Mick’s jeans and toss them at him, “get up,” he barks.  
Mickey startles awake, sitting up straight with sleep fogged eyes. Blinking hard to get Ian into focus before he grumbles, “the fuck Gallagher?”  
“Get up. Get dressed.”  
“Dressed for what?”  
“We never had that fucking date.”  
He’s not going to give ultimatums. Ultimatums aren’t fair. Demanding him to announce his love to the world didn’t work out so hot for them last time. He’s going to spend this entire fucking day with Mickey. Just the two of them. And they’re going to have fun. And they’re going to get out of the Southside and all the reminders at every turn of all the ways they’ve failed each other in the past. Maybe they’ll talk, maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll get to the heart of their relationship, figure out exactly why it is they just keep coming back to each other. Maybe they’ll decide it’s the end, or maybe it’s another beginning in a relationship of seemingly endless beginnings.


	31. Mooooo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are we getting some Gallavich feels back?

Mooooo

“You’re such a dick,” but he’s laughing as his head reappears from the water. Reaching for the kayak that Ian just dumped them out of on purpose.   
“Well, you are what you eat, so…” he grins. Pushing his soaked hair back off his forehead.  
Mickey’s middle finger responds for him.   
Neither one of them had ever been in a kayak before. It wasn’t that hard to get the hang of. But getting back into it in deep water, now that’s something. And that fuckin’ laugh behind him. Seemingly bouncing off the water under them, and the air around them. Landing over Mickey’s soul like a warm blanket on a cold night.   
————  
A shriek startles him awake. Jerking out of bed and following the sound of it out the door into the bright desert sun. Nearly choking to death on relief when he realizes it was a shriek of joy. Falling to his butt on the top step to catch his breath and swallow his heart back to his chest where it belongs.  
Martin is chasing the little girl around the open space of the yard. Every time he catches her he tickles her neck and she shrieks. He leans his head back, closing his eyes and reveling in the sounds of joy. After the last couple weeks with Eduardo, he needs this. He needs to listen to this. Let it coat his brain, create a shield before he has to go back there.   
Her shadow appears beside him. Her presence knocking loose the last of the horrors still playing in his mind.   
She’s silent for a long moment. When he opens his eyes, she scans him over, looking for any hint of discomfort, if this is the time to pull the plug. He nods at her. Her eyes wander back over to Martin who has stopped now, watching Rocky taking some sheets off the clothesline.   
“They weren’t supposed to be together,” she tells him slowly.  
“Hmm?”  
Her hand motions towards the old couple who are now folding a sheet between the two of them, “never married, never had children,” she sighs, lighting a joint and taking a long toke before handing it to him, “you’ve heard a few stories of rabo de hueso. Bone tail. The Cantil Viper. The original Eduardo Alvarez.”  
“Heard of him,” Mickey assures her when he hands the joint back over, “sounds like a real piece of work.”  
“He was. And he was Rocky’s father.”  
“Huh? I thought he was…”  
“Killed by his daughter.”  
“By Rocky?”  
A half nod. Watching as Martin leans forward to kiss the old woman’s crinkled tissue-paper cheek, “the Cantil built the Cartel. He built it with drugs, guns, and blood. He built it on fear instead of respect. He quickly spun completely out of control. High on power and death, the more mass graves his foot soldiers dug the more he wanted. He had a macuahuitl, a traditional Aztec weapon. It’s like a flat club, edges embedded with obsidian spikes. It was his first love. And maybe the only thing he ever loved in the world was using it. Some say the only time the man ever smiled was when he was swinging that thing down on the neck of a bent man. He’d decapitate a man just for looking at him wrong. He went unchecked for years. His bribes kept officials away, his reign of terror kept everyone quiet.”  
She stops when Rosa approaches them with a fistful of wildflowers she must have picked from the hillside behind the main house. She holds them out to Mickey with a smile, all gap-toothed and eager. He accepts them with his own smile, taking her hand to press it to his lips. Like a knight would a princess. She shrieks again and takes off running.  
“Somebody’s in love,” Lou taunts.  
He laughs, “jealous?” looking over his shoulder at her.   
She smirks, but the snide comment doesn’t part her lips. A look of resignation passes her eyes, something she won’t acknowledge with words as she takes another toke, blowing the exhale towards the never-ending blue of the sky with a gentle sigh, “Rocky was the Cantil’s favored child. She had the smarts and the guts to lead. But she lacked the lust for blood. The only time she lusted after anything was the son of a house servant. It didn’t slip the Cantil’s attention either. He beat her within an inch of her life. And then made her watch as he did the same to Martin. Left him in the desert to die a slow death. After that he focused his attentions on Rocky’s brother Antonio. He was the one to inherit the dynasty. He also lacked the Cantil’s bloodlust. But he was better at faking it, convincing their father he was the man for the job. But it was Rocky who witnessed the Cantil’s true dark side. He kept children. Kept them in cages for his own…” she chokes on her breath, clearing her throat and continuing, “ages ranged from six to nine years old. Girls and boys. When he was bored with them he would behead them,” swallowing hard.  
She takes a moment, rubbing at her eyes, watching the little girl in front of her playing with her doll. Watching Martin carrying the laundry basket back to the main house. Watching Rocky stooped over the little girl, her old arthritic hand gently rubbing the small bony back of the girl as she speaks.   
“She killed him with his own macuahuitl. And she ran. Knowing that no matter what story she told, the truth or not, she would be hunted. It was Antonio who ordered her left alone. Some part of him knew the dark depths of their father’s soul. And some part of him couldn’t order his own sister to pay for a father’s sins. It was also Antonio that had gone back for Martin, brought him here. Antonio was softer than the Cantil had ever expected. With him at the head of the cartel the murder rates dropped exponentially. People ‘round here felt safe again. They were allowed to live their lives mostly untouched by the cartel. Antonio even helped rebuild some structures and fund community activities, meals, centers for homeless. The only violence he always condoned are the fights. It started as a way for people to solve their differences in a controlled environment. Then the bets started and it became a cash cow for the cartel. And no one minded because of all the investments Antonio had made to the community.  
As Antonio’s health began to decline about five years ago, it was his son Eduardo who’s grip began to tighten. The violence has begun to grow, he inherited the Cantil’s genes. Some of the town’s people think that when Antonio’s life ends and the boy is left unchecked it’ll be worse than anything the Cantil ever did. But he’s Antonio’s only offspring. It was Eduardo that introduced human trafficking to the cartel, he values no life. He only values money, drugs, sex, and power. He gets off on fear,” she reaches suddenly for his face, gripping his chin to turn him towards her, “never fear him Mick.”  
————  
This time of year it takes fifteen seconds. From the time the sun is an orange orb hovering over the horizon of Lake Michigan. Fifteen seconds until it’s gone.   
Mickey looks over his shoulder at Ian’s face. Watching the reflection in his eyes instead. Knowing that there will be hundreds upon thousands of sunsets in his life, but the important ones, those are the ones shared with the people he loves.   
————  
“C’mon, gotta show you somethin’,” she reaches for his hand to pull him to his feet. She’s smiling, but there’s a tension in it, a deep loss.   
He keeps her hand in his at their sides. Hers is clammy and her grip is lax. He wants to ask, he wants to bring her hand to his lips, he wants to wrap his arms around her. But her guard is up.   
She leads him to the main house, shouts something in Spanish to Rocky. Mickey thinks it’s something about dinner. Rocky shouts back and Lou rolls her eyes. Bringing him to the back office. A room he’s never been in. There’s a desk, a laptop, a filing cabinet. There’s few photos on the wall. A candid shot of Rocky and Martin that he assumes Lou must have taken at some point. An action shot of her in the ring, facing off against a giant of a man. And one of the four of them. He laughs to himself at the memory. Fuck Navidad. And it shows on her face in the photo.   
“Sit,” she gets out of the chair, pushing him towards it, pressing play on a video posted on YouTube.   
————  
He cuts into his steak, looking over at Ian and letting out a quiet, “moooo.”  
Ian laughs so hard the neighboring tables on the rooftop patio glare at him, “sorry,” he tries, “sorry,” then looking at Mickey with a sheepish grin, “sorry.”  
“Fuck do I care?”  
He blushes, looking down at his plate for a moment. Mickey knows what he’s thinking. He’s thinking that he just garnered them the attention of all the diners at this snooty place. He’s thinking that Mickey doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that they’re fags sitting on a rooftop in the middle of Chicago having a romantic dinner.   
He gets out of his chair. Letting it screech a little across the tiles. Watching Ian’s eyes rise to meet his. Watching an insecurity run through his irises. An insecurity that Mickey put there.   
Tilting Ian’s chin with his knuckles, he steps in. Pressing in gently at first. They’ve not been intimate since he admitted to having sex with Lou. He’s been respecting the space Ian asked for. As fuckin’ hard as it’s been, he understands it.   
There’s a small grunt of surprise that exits Ian’s mouth at the initial contact. He’s unyielding for a moment. But Mickey waits. Keeping his lips closed, letting Ian make the decision. When Mick pulls back, running his hand across Ian’s cheek, lingering there, his pointer finger traveling from the corner of his lips to the edge of his jaw. Meeting his other four fingers, FUCK.   
Ian looks surprised, maybe a little timid for a moment. Mickey taps his face, “okay,” starting to turn away. He’ll wait. He’s the one who fucked up. And he’ll wait.   
But when he turns to make his way back to his seat he feels Ian’s hands on his hips. Roughly tugging to spin him, pulling him down to his level. Igniting the kind of fire he’s only ever felt against this man’s lips. Drawing each other’s breath, cupping each other’s faces. Lingering, parted lips but no tongue.   
Their lips tilt away from one another, leaning forehead to forehead. Neither of them giving a single damn about who saw it, or who thinks what about it.   
“I love you,” Mickey finally whispers near his warm mouth.   
————  
“Fuck,” he leans back in the chair. He watched it five times. Five times just to hear all the words. To see the clear expression of mania in his eyes, “fuck,” he whispers. Rubbing vigorously into his closed eyes for a long time. Long enough for spots to collide and explode. Long enough that when he opens his lids, the spots are still floating across the image of Ian’s face on the computer screen, “how the fuck you find this?” his voice hitches, it sounds thick and emotional. Part of him hates that. He’s finally starting to feel at home here, he’s starting to feel like there can be life beyond the Southside. Beyond the Gallaghers and all their fucked up dramatic relationships and horrible decision making. Beyond that Russian whore and his father. Beyond that endless bleak grey nothingness in a city he was trying to forget. In a city where he has no future. Nothing but past. No leaves, just roots.  
And all it takes. All it takes is a video of that fuckin’ ginger asshole clearly teetering on insanity. All it takes is a deep painful realization in Mickey’s stomach that no one has been taking care of him. No one has been keeping him safe from himself. And whoever this nitwit is that posted this fucking video is fanning the flames.   
All it takes to realize he never stopped caring. He never stopped loving. He can put as much distance and as much time, as much space as physically possible between them but it’ll never kill the feeling.   
“Fuck,” this time his voice shakes and his eyes burn. He never should have left. Even if all it was, if all they had were a few phone calls and some discussions through plexiglass; he’d have known. He’d have known and he’d have been there. Even if there was a concrete wall and a few iron bars between them. At least it wasn’t half a fuckin’ continent.   
Suddenly the distance seems incomprehensible.   
“Well cryin’ never fixed a fuckin’ thing,” her voice lands in his ears, filtering slowly into his consciousness.  
“How’d you find this?” he wonders again. His eyes won’t leave the computer screen.  
“The nude painter,” she grunts, “him and his partner were all up in arms about it, thinkin’ it was the greatest thing since sliced bread.”  
“Fuck.”  
“Yah,” she lets him sit for a moment, gathering himself, rewrapping the chords around his heart he’d wrapped so tightly since that day on the border. Rubbing his hands over his face, through his hair before he looks at her. Her lip trembles and she bites it hard enough to flinch before taking a deep breath and telling him, “I see it this way. This takes root, becomes something big, becomes a movement, or a religious sect, or whatever the fuck. It gets big and gets out of control. Eventually he’ll go down for it. Whether it’s legally, mentally, emotionally, or physically. Whoever the tool next to him is, he don’t look like he can handle it,” crossing her arms over her chest, “or it fizzles before it becomes anything. Like this is just a fluke, one time incident. And it’s over,” she blinks hard, appraising him silently before announcing, “judging by your reaction to seeing this, it’s time to get the ball rolling on your ticket back to Chicago pretty boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realize my timeline is probably screwy. I know cartels weren't really a big thing until the '70s but the illegal drug trade from Mexico does date back to like the '30s or something. It's fiction - I do what I want :)  
> I also will end up screwing up the timeline of Gay Jesus, I have zero desire to go back and watch those episodes to make sure I'm putting in the right details. I also don't know if Trevor was in the first video (or any), only thing I remember is the annoying girl talking about getting a bunch of hits. So... I apologize if we hop off path with the events of the show, hopefully not too confusing. I felt like that storyline went on forever so I'm giving myself a little wiggle room.


	32. I Don't Put Out On A First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little back and forth between our boys.

I Don’t Put Out On A First Date

“What the fuck you doin?”   
He’s standing on the bottom stair of the porch, watching Ian holding the front door of the Gallagher house open, “I don’t put out on a first date.”  
“You ever even been on one?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Oh really?”  
“Yeah tonight fuckface. And I ain’t puttin’ out.”  
“Oh okay Mick,” he grunts in disbelief. Why wouldn’t this night end in sex? The whole day was incredible. Best way to end it, he starts into the house. But looks back when he doesn’t hear Mickey move.  
His eyebrows are dangerously high, “well if you ain’t gonna wait for a goodnight kiss, then I guess this is where I say thank you for the fucking beautiful day. I’d like to do it again sometime or some shit.”  
“You’re serious?”  
“Yeah I’m fuckin’ serious.”  
“So what? You’re just going to kiss me, then follow me in anyway since this is where you’re staying? But we’ll pretend we don’t know each other on the other side of this door or something?”  
“No. I’m gonna kiss you, then I’m gonna walk away.”  
“Where the fuck you going to stay?” his stomach instantly knots, knowing that Lou is still somewhere in this city. Her name hasn’t come up today, he hasn’t even thought about her, but now at the end of what has been probably the best day they’ve ever had together he’s going to go back to her?  
“I don’ know. Maybe I’ll sleep under the L. Or behind the Alibi. Or spread a fuckin’ blanket out and watch shooting stars until…”  
The sound of the door slamming cuts off his words. Frantically grabbing a blanket off the couch although Frank is partially under it. He grumbles the distress of being uncovered even though it’s stiflingly hot in the house, “fuck you Frank,” Ian responds, rushing out of the house to jump down the stairs. Slowing on the sidewalk when he’s beside Mickey.  
“The fuck you doin?”  
“You really think you’re going to look for shooting stars without me?”  
Tilting his face towards Ian with the hint of a cocky grin rising on his lips. After a few blocks, Ian knows where they’re headed. Looking down at Mickey’s profile in the glow of the streetlight he feels more tenderness spreading in his chest than he’s ever felt before. When their hands brush against each other at their sides, he’s shocked when Mickey grips his fingers. Not letting go. Walking down the sidewalk in the Southside of Chicago holding hands with Mickey Milkovich. An uncontrollable smile takes over his features, one that won’t stop when Mickey looks up at him, “the fuck you lookin’ at?”  
“You.”  
“Well fuckin’ stop. I still ain’t puttin’ out on a first date.”


	33. I Don't See Any Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stargazing and some Mexico flashbacks.

I Don’t See Any Stars

They’ve been lying on their backs on the pitcher’s mound for an hour now. Not saying much, not sleeping yet. Just enjoying the feeling of nearness and calm.  
“I don’t see any stars,” Ian finally admits.  
Mickey turns his head, peering directly into Ian’s eyes, running his hand along Ian’s jaw with a grin, “‘course you don’t fuckwit.”  
“What? We’re still in the middle of a fuckin’ city. You see any?”  
“All the time,” admitting quietly before leaning into his lips.  
————  
“Fuck,” she shouts it, yanking her boot off and throwing it against the wall. Hard.  
He flinches. He’s never seen her truly angry.  
“It’s not enough,” her hands furiously running through the quaff of hair on the top of her head, “it’s not enough,” her breath catches, eyes pinch tight while she rubs the back of her neck and tugs nervously on her hair. Her frustration is rolling off of her in a tidal wave, “fuck! It won’t be enough until it’s too late,” her words break and she slams her way back out the door.  
Mickey sits up on his cot. Rubbing, blinking sleep out of his eyes. Where the fuck was she? What the fuck is she talking about? And how much shit did she put up her nose already today?  
He hears muffled shouting in Spanish through the door that rebounded open when she slammed it. Pulling pants on, stepping out into the bright sun, this fucking sun. It never fucking stops. Always blinding and burning. There’s never a fucking cloud in the sky around here.  
She reappears from behind the wall of the new structure they’re building in place of the one that was burned to the ground. They started it last week, she said the mourning period had been observed and it was time to rebuild. If what she said about Eduardo was true, they’d need a fucking stadium, but Mickey didn’t bother reminding her of that.  
She’s stalking towards him looking like she’s either going to go on a crazed killing spree or lie down in the dirt and cry. She’s watching the ground between them, avoiding eye contact. Has been since she showed him the video. She’s creating distance. And he understands it, but fuck if he doesn’t want to just reach out and take her in his arms.  
When she stops just a breath away from him, her eyes rise, sending a chill down his spine. Her voice is low, dark, and void of emotion, “Marco says it’s not enough.”  
“The fuck it ain’t. We’ve got them for drug trafficking, human trafficking; gave ‘em the next shipment dates.”  
“Them. We have them. Not Eduardo.”  
She was the one who approached Marco, telling Mickey that he was too much of a pawn. If he didn’t have enough to leverage a solid deal, Marco was the kind of guy that would arrest him right then and there. Mickey was, after all, an escaped convict. No matter the branch of law enforcement, they don’t take too kindly to someone who made a joke of their prison system.  
“That’s enough to get a few lower level members, maybe a mid-rank or two. It’s enough to get you a couple years off your original sentence but not enough to get you a stay at the Ritz.”  
“Well it ain’t exactly the Ritz,” he tells her but her narrowed-eye death-stare shuts him up. Fuck, he thought he missed her eye contact. Now he’s squirming, his own skin is too tight, and he can’t swallow. That’s some serious fuckin’ eye contact.  
Her gaze drops slowly. Landing and staying on the ink in his chest. Those stars in her eyes were spinning wicked, intense, angry. He wasn’t sure he wanted that, but he’s absolutely certain he doesn’t want the mist that’s smothering them now.  
————  
He finally pulls away from the kisses when his lips feel raw and his pants are feeling way too fuckin’ tight in the zipper region, “I still ain’t puttin’ out,” leaning away from Ian’s warm body. Knowing he needs to put some physical space between them or break that promise.  
A heavy sigh is his only response. But he can feel his eyes lingering on his face, maybe searching for a hint of a bluff in that statement. He wanted to, there was no doubt about that. Multiple times throughout the day he wanted to reach for Ian’s belt and see how he responded. But this is the time. If they’re going to do this, this is the time. Maybe the last chance they’ll ever have to build themselves something healthy, strong, and long-lasting.  
He lets Ian get his fill of staring before he looks back over at him, telling him softly, “we’ve always been good at fucking and fighting. We already know that.”  
Silence hangs between them for long enough that Mickey knows Ian is trying to decide if he has an argument. Like if they know they’re good at it, then what would it hurt to rush back in? Instead he nods, “hit restart for the last time?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Okay,” he agrees softly, lifting Mick’s hand to press against his lips.  
————  
He wasn’t sure if it was the mass quantity of weed, or the ten mile run, or the hour on the punching bag, or the ass-kicking she handed him on the mats; but something finally calmed that murderous stark-raving lunacy from her eyes.  
When they’ve untangled her choke hold on him, she looks nearly normal. Leaning to rest back on her elbows. Rolling her head side to side, loosening her neck before looking skyward for a breath. A deep breath, he watches it in her chest. Holding, absorbing before exhaling while her eyes land on his, “I’m terrified.”  
She admits it. And it’s in her eyes. But nothing else in her demeanor conveys anything more than just Lou. A stubborn, snarky, sarcastic badass with three blackbelts and DNA on her boots. And a heart of goddamned lion. Fuck if that heart isn’t starting to break right in front of his eyes.  
Her eyes leave his face. Landing on the horizon and staying there, “I started this ball rolling. And now it’s rolling too hard and too fast. I pushed it off a fucking cliff instead of starting with an anthill,” she chokes off momentarily, her knees come towards her body, hands clasping tightly together around them, “shipments in four days. We have four fucking days before Eduardo is looking for a rat in his ranks. Where’s he gonna start, huh?” her voice is getting thick with tears she’s trying desperately to swallow, “day three we make a deal. We get you the fuck out of Mexico.”  
“No,” he interrupts, “no way. I’ll see this through. We can…”  
“The fuck you will,” her focus finds his face. It stays there. It’s steady, “Antonio is dying. It’s not a matter of months anymore. It’s a matter of days. Or hours. And when he dies, the protection he put on Rocky dies. And when the protection dies,” her lip trembles, the eye contact shifting once again.  
“Why doesn’t she…”  
“She ain’t a runner. She has always said that one day she will have to pay for her sins. And when that day comes she will stand and face them.”  
“And Martin?”  
“Will stand where he’s always stood. Beside her. I’m taking Rosa to Josefina’s tomorrow morning. Say your goodbyes tonight,” she doesn’t look his way but he nods. Fuck, that’ll be tough.  
He watches her face, the reflection of the sun starting to sink on the horizon. Lighting up the sky with brilliant pinks and oranges. The only thing the desert has that is always brilliant. Always different. Always beautiful. The only thing, and there’s a tear escaping her eyes. Streaming down her cheek. She lets it go. It leaves a glossy line through the dirt, grime, and sweat that always finds its way to her face by the end of the day.  
When he reaches out to touch her hand, she jerks away like his touch is a hot ember. Clearing her throat, getting to her feet and warning him, “it’ll be a fucking miracle if any of us make it out alive.”  
————  
He’s still awake when Ian’s breathing becomes sleep breathing. He turns to watch him. The peaceful angelic quality to his lax features. The way his freckled skin reflects the little moonlight that has made its way through the lights and smog of the city.  
In his mind the words he should say. The things he’ll need to say. Someday, “someday,” he whispers, reaching out to trace a gentle line along his sleeping lover’s face, “someday,” as his hand follows his arm, “I’ll tell you about Mexico,” finding his warm fingers and slipping his own into the space between.


	34. El Gingero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clash of the Titans?

El Gingero

A car rolls up to the curb beside him as he’s walking home. He walked Mickey to work this morning. The gym is having an open house all day, so he said he’d be back late. Ian got the grand tour of the place, he asked if he could stay to watch a class but Mickey told him to wait. He says he’s just a glorified practice dummy still but Jordan is planning on testing him in the near future for a belt level.   
He’s fucking tired. They didn’t fall asleep last night until about two and then the sprinkler system on the ball field woke them up at full blast around five. Waking up that early was worth it to hear Mickey’s mouthful of curse words and see his haphazard clumsy escape from the spouts of water.   
When the car just keeps rolling beside him, he finally turns his head. Immediately wishing he hadn’t.  
“Get in,” she orders with a grin.  
Fuck. He closes his eyes momentarily, taking a deep breath. This was bound to happen sometime. Being alone with her, fuck.   
“I ain’t gonna bite,” she coaxes.  
“Fuck,’ he curses under his breath, Mickey asked him to give her a chance. He said he would. The little bit that he’s been around her, she just isn’t so bad. But, fuck. It seemed like Mickey was his again. It seemed like they could truly have the start they need.   
And now here she fucking is. Fuck.  
Begrudgingly he gets in the passenger side. Avoiding eye contact although he can feel her cool gaze on him through the aviators, “you medicated for the day? Or you need to make a pit stop?”  
“What?” now his head turns.  
“What?” she’s grinning at him, “it’s Sunday. You can’t fuck with me. I know you got nothing to do today.”  
“But, I have…”  
“I ain’t gonna kill ya.”  
He lets his exhale vibrate his lips. As he watches her, she tilts her sunglasses down to her nose. Letting him get a good long look at her eyes, he can’t tell what her intentions are, but her expression is sincere about not killing him at least, “a pit stop depends on how long we’ll be out.”  
“I’ll have you home before dinner,” she winks.  
He keeps a round of pills in his wallet for back-up anyway. So even if she doesn’t have him home before dinner, “okay,” he sighs.  
“Okay,” she responds. Tipping her sunglasses back up and pulling away from the curb.  
It’s the same vehicle she had the other weekend. But he notices now that the navigation system looks like someone took a hammer to it, “what, uh, happened here?”  
She shrugs, “fuckin’ thing kept tellin’ me how to live my life. All this fuckin’ turn left in fifty feet, turn left. Recalculating… fuck her, I know where I’m going.”  
“Clearly,” he mutters.   
She snorts out a laugh and doesn’t speak again. The warm wind blowing through the open windows; the flat, straight nothingness of the freeway quickly lulls Ian to sleep. Not waking again until the car is put in park.  
He blinks rapidly, looking around to see they’ve stopped in the same parking lot where she took them swimming, “what are we doing here?” he wonders.  
“Have a nice nap El Gingero?” she smirks as she exits the car.   
“What the hell?” he wonders as he sets foot on the ground. His body unfurls into a stretch without him telling it to. He must have been sleeping close to two hours.   
“Here,” she hands him a hiking pack.   
She sets off down the trail they took before and doesn’t speak again until they come to the same spot she veered off last time.   
“Okay, seriously, what are we doing here?” though he has to admit this foray into nature has been nice. It’s been nice to be alone in his own mind. No startling sounds of the city, or his siblings, or any aspect of his normal life bombarding his waking thoughts at every turn.   
“We,” she drops her pack, starts stepping out of her boots, “are doing something you wanted to do the other day but didn’t have the pussy to do it.”  
“Huh? Pussy?”  
“Balls are weak. I tap you on your ballbag and you’re huddled over, choking back puke. You tap me anywhere on the pussy, ain’t gonna slow me down one bit,” she shrugs, a devilish smile on her lips, twinkling in her eyes and he can’t really help but smile back at her. Not much, just a little.   
“I’m not jumping.”  
“Yeah you are.”  
“No, I’m not. Besides I don’t have a suit.”  
She makes a show of looking around, then shrugs, “just us. You think I give a fuck about seeing you in your underwear? I couldn’t give a fuck about your birthday suit, though I hear it comes with nine inches,” she arcs an eyebrow at him.  
“Nine inches of 100% gay,” he clarifies.  
“Nine inches of 100% Gay Jesus,” she adds.  
“Jesus,” he starts to curse her out.  
“Exactly,” she snorts as she’s dropping her shorts to her ankles.  
Fuck, she’s worse than Mickey. He drops it. But still doesn’t drop his shorts.  
She’s down to bathing suit, watching him intently with a dare in her eyes,“come on, you know you wanted to.”  
“Only thing I wanted to do was drown you.”  
“Fair enough. How’s this? We jump together. Then you can try to drown me if you still feel so inclined. Good luck.”  
“On the jumping or the drowning?”  
“Both.”  
“Why do you care if I jump?”  
She shrugs, her lips press together slightly while she watches his face, “because I want you to feel it.”  
“Feel what?”  
“You’ll see.”  
“You are…”  
“Trust me?”  
“Uh you fucked my boyfriend.”  
“I’m not asking for all the trust you have to offer. I’m asking for a moment. Or maybe the afternoon. Thing is, I got a knife in my right boot. I got a knife in my left boot. I got a knife in the band of my shorts. I know at least a hundred ways to kill you with my bare hands right here right now. But I haven’t. You trusted me enough to fall asleep while I was driving us down the freeway.”  
“That wasn’t trust, that was exhaustion.”  
She doesn’t respond with words, but her face is calling his bluff. What the fuck? Guess she hasn’t given him a reason, aside from boyfriend fucking, to not trust her. And technically she’s Mickey’s wife, so in all honestly she has every right to fuck him.   
“Fuck,” he sighs, taking off his t-shirt and shorts. Starting to make his way to the ledge.  
She snags his arm, keeping him solidly in place, “don’t look, don’t think, just jump.”  
“I don’t know if…”  
“Don’t doubt,” she’s watching his eyes intently. There’s something supportive and open in her gaze. He feels her hand snaking into his at his side. It’s warm, calloused, her grip is strong, “just jump,” she repeats. She’s got some serious voodoo, Jedi, Kung Fu Master mind powers.  
And this time, he wants to. He finds himself nodding at her. And as she takes off running he does too. Her hand is locked in his as they push off the ledge. His stomach leaps into his throat and he thinks for a moment he may choke to death on it. But then he feels it. He feels the wind, he feels the fall. He feels the anticipation of hitting the water. The excitement and adrenaline starting to buzz and tingle through his nerves. He feels. All of it. And as he crashes into the water he feels peaceful. Coming to the surface with a whoop and a grin. His eyes land on hers when she appears, she grins back and fuck if he doesn’t forget how much he wants to hate her.   
As the adrenaline starts pulling back they tread in the deep water, taking in their surroundings, letting the water cool their overheated bodies. Listening to the waterfall nearby, the birds and squirrels in the trees. The whooshing sounds of their hands just beneath the water’s clear surface.  
Finally she wonders, “still wanna try to drown me?”  
“I don’t,” he responds honestly, though he doesn’t want to admit it to himself.  
“Alright,” her smile is contagious, “let’s fuckin’ jump again then.”  
They end up taking the leap five more times. Only giving in when his feet are too sore from the rocks to make the trek up once again. Finding a flat rock to lie back on. Letting the sun warm their skin, he’s dangling his feet in. She’s leaning over to trace circles on the surface. It’s calm and easy, there’s an easygoing charm to this woman. As terrifying as she is, there’s still something about her that he can’t help but feel completely at ease.  
Even once she begins speaking. Wondering, “your dad’s an unreliable drunk. Your mom was a yo-yo. You never had much but you had enough. You pulled your weight but the brunt of it landed on your two older siblings. The quiet unassuming middle child. Could disappear and no one would notice,” she pauses for a moment, maybe waiting for him to respond. Maybe not, “did they?”  
“Did they what?”  
“Notice when you disappeared?”  
“Well yeah, I mean I left for the Army,” he sits now, wanting to look at her face.  
She senses his focus immediately and turns her head, clarifying, “that’s not what I’m talking about,” holding his eyes steady with her own.   
“How much did Mickey tell you?” he wonders, feeling strangely defensive though there hasn’t been a judgmental note in her voice. Her eye contact remains steady and unreadable.   
“Nothing.”  
“Nothing?”  
“You know better than anyone how silent he is when it’s words that matter.”  
She’s right. He’s caught off guard by this line of questioning, but since so far all he’s seen from her is a true concern for Mickey’s well-being, maybe he should just be honest.   
“What was the diagnosis?” she wonders after a moment.   
His hand rises to his face, rubbing his chin momentarily, wondering how much he should tell her. How much he can share without making it look like he’s unstable and a bad influence on Mickey at a time when he’s getting his life together. For the first time, doing something for himself. Getting an honest job that he seems to enjoy. Planning to further his education, Ian thought the GED would be the end of it. But after he caught him reading a few times in their cell, he realized Mick had an appreciation for knowledge, whether he’d ever admit or not. From the outside Mick was a just a dumb thug. Using his intimidation tactics and weapon of choice to get what he wanted. But inside, none of that shit was what Mick wanted. No denying his street smarts, no denying his quick wit and creative use of cuss words. Born into a different circumstance, he would have been unstoppable. And isn’t that what he’s reaching for now? A different life. Pushing circumstances aside, making goals, wanting something real, something stable. Stable. Something Ian will probably never be.   
His gaze meets and holds hers. Steady, unfaltering, unwavering. Stable. She is stable.   
“Bipolar,” he admits, “seventeen when I started acting crazy…”  
“Not crazy,” she interrupts, “bipolar.”  
“Okay,” feeling a little at ease. She’s willing to use the name, put it out there for what it is. She’s not going to dance around the point. She’s going to lay this out there, so maybe he should too, “I didn’t want to believe it when I was diagnosed. I grew up with a bipolar mother who never accepted her diagnosis, she never took her meds. She always said they made her feel weird. And I guess, I guess I was scared. I didn’t want to be her, but I didn’t want to be some shell of a person all doped up on anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers. I still wanted to be able to feel, but I felt too much. And then the inevitable crashes.”  
She responds with a half nod. Watching him like she’s waiting for more. He’s not sure what. Her silence is equal parts intimidating and comforting. But there’s something in her eye contact, “what’s it like?”  
“The crashes?”  
“The whole thing.”  
He sighs, trying to find words, “the highs are intense. Everything is so beautiful, crisp. Sharp and clear. It’s light. It makes this whole world seem vibrant. Alive. Everything feels good. Amazing. A simple touch can light a fire. A smile can…” thinking of Mickey and how gorgeous he’s always been. The things his smile has always done to Ian, “but the thoughts are overwhelming. Obsessive. Laser focused but all over the place. Everything rushing at me at once, hard to sort through. Rational things get blurred.”  
He stops when she moves. But she only moves far enough to turn. To sit up and face him.  
“The lows,” he continues, “just, fuck. The lows hurt. All that energy that was expended during the highs,” he shrugs. How does he describe how it felt to be unable to get out of bed? Feeling Mickey lying down next to him from time to time just to watch him breathe. Forcing water down his throat. Every single touch physically hurt. Trapped in an endless mantra of ‘you’re not worth it, you’re not worth it, you’re not worth it’. Knowing he was hurting the people he loved. Knowing he was too much, it was all too much. They’d stopped loving him. He was nothing but a burden, “I didn’t have the energy to kill myself. I remember standing in the bathroom. Trying to get the blades out of a razor, but I was so tired. I just…”  
He trails off. It was hearing Mick coming in the front door. But it wasn’t the thought that Mick wanted him alive, it was the thought that he’d get mad. He’d get mad about cleaning up the mess. He’d come home to find nothing more than a mess on the bathroom floor.   
“But the in between. Those days when I was just me. I was still just me. Unmedicated, but okay. Nothing was too dull or too sharp. I was afraid that those days would be gone too. Like if I took the meds those good days would be hazy. I’d forget who I was. I’d forget how to feel,” those blue eyes on him in the darkness wouldn’t stir the butterflies, wouldn’t make him feel like he was floating or flying or spinning out of control but completely grounded and at home, “but I hurt him. Fuck, I hurt him in so many ways.”  
She lets the silence linger for as long as he wants it. She’s watching him, but there’s no intent behind any of it. Just an honest curiosity. She starts shifting, sliding her lower body back into the water, she pauses before pushing completely off the rock, looking over her shoulder to tell him, “everyone on this Earth walks through Hell. The part that matters is how you choose to deal with the burns,” she slips all the way into the water, calling back to him, “let’s get moving before I end up missing your curfew.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this chapter and the next one were one chapter, but it got so dialogue heavy that I broke it up.   
> I'm not sure if I'm breaking too far from Ian's character by giving him the maturity to deal with this particular road block. Like more maturity than any Gallagher would ever have when it comes to dealing with relationships problems. But we'll call it character growth, which we can probably agree he's due for.   
> It originally had a different setting as well, so I apologize if there are some flow issues, but I felt the two should be removed from all distractions so they had no option but to get to know each other.


	35. The Debt Collector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 34

“Where are you from?” he finally blurts out a question. Like he’s been planning for the last half hour to ask her something, anything. And that’s the one he chooses.  
“Where am I not from?” she wonders blandly. Her openness and supportiveness from earlier seems to have dissipated. The silence on the walk back out has become a little heavy. After being so open about his disorder, he thought maybe they could keep the dialogue going. Maybe he could get details from her about Mexico that Mickey has been unwilling to share. Or maybe he could understand how the hell they ended up married. Or maybe details of any kind. Like how long she’s going to be in Chicago.  
“Um so…”  
Her head swivels around to glare at him, “this ‘cause you answered my question earlier so now I gotta answer yours sort of thing?”  
“What if it is? I mean, you’re Mickey’s wife, and if you’re going to hang around, I mean maybe we should know each other.”  
“El Gingero,” she sighs, “you wanna ask me something, just fuckin’ ask it.”  
“I did,” he asserts, “I asked you where you’re from. And I want to know the answer.”  
“Seriously? That’s what you’re going to ask? That’s your one question, and that’s the one you land on?”  
“Why’s it only one question?”  
“‘Cause I said it is.”  
“You asked me at least three.”  
She falls silent for a few steps, long enough that he thinks she’s just going to ignore him. When she takes a deep breath, it seems to echo off the trees surrounding the well worn trail, “Vegas.”  
“Vegas? Really?”  
“Vegas, Dallas, Detroit, St. Louis, LA.”  
“Military family or something?”  
“Fuck no,” it huffs out of her like it’s the last thing she’s going to say.  
“So, um…”  
“That was your three questions.”  
“That was…”  
“Mother was a showgirl ’til she got knocked up by some smooth-talkin’ piece of shit druggie. Following the next high. Always following the next high. The streets, homeless shelters. System in Detroit. Foster…” trailing off, adjusting her pack up higher on her back, “Mom died when I was eight. Dad was… I don’t know. Fuckin’ high and missing. Took me back out of foster care when I was twelve. Used me as currency for crack. It was LA when I was seventeen that I finally ran hard enough to get away from him. All the way to Mexico.”  
His mouth is dry. Swallowing isn’t helping. He’s not sure where to go from here. But he wants more as much as he doesn’t want more. He’ll admit, he understood as soon as she knocked Terry Milkovich out with one punch why Mickey was drawn to her. She recognized a monster when she saw one and she took care of the problem. Fuck, maybe life would have been different if she’d been around when they were kids.  
“How, um,” hard swallow, “how’d your mom die?”  
“Fuck if I know,” it’s more of a sigh than anything. Her hands falling to her sides, “I just remember begging, ‘don’t leave me, don’t leave me,’ over and over into her neck. Until her neck was cold. And the ground was cold. The air was cold. I could see my breath. But not hers,” she’s silent for a long time.  
Ian feels no need to share anything about his own mother. Hell, he was off with Mickey when she died. He never cared to see her when she was around. Not until after the diagnosis. Then it was different. It was someone who understood. But she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand that he wasn’t her. He didn’t have to be her. Something he keeps telling himself when he doubts the meds, or the circumstances, when he wants nothing more than to give into a rising manic episode. To let himself fly. To feel that feeling like nothing could ever go wrong, like everything is beautiful and light. Nothing can hurt him and he can’t hurt anyone. And he remembers. He remembers all the times she hurt him. She hurt his siblings. She hurt them when she couldn’t feel hurt herself.  
“You’ve been fostered,” she states after awhile.  
“Yeah but never for very long. When we were young Lip and I were always kept together. So it wasn’t that bad. Ya know, of all the shit things that happened in Mickey’s house, he never once ended up in foster care. Probably would have been better off.”  
Her hands are moving again. Her right one tucked into the back of her waistband. Her left thumb hooked lazily through a belt loop. Face turning slowly, eyes landing on his. It’s no wonder Mick is comfortable with her. Looking into her eyes is like looking into the sky just as the stars are starting to show, to twinkle gently. Spread a blanket out and look for shooting stars, like it was something he’d never in a million years do. If Ian had seen it then, that hopelessness in him. Thinking he was fucked for life so there was no point in taking the time to enjoy things. Little things. The first time Ian kissed his bare shoulder he had twisted away like his kiss was a burn. But the second time he did it, in the dugout with the night sky above them, the moon pasting Mickey’s pale skin in an almost eery glow, the summer heat stifling even in the darkness, he shuddered. Tougher than nails, never cared about shit, didn’t want to look at the stars, didn’t want to hold hands or kiss; Mickey Milkovich shuddered against his lips.  
Didn’t want to lay a blanket out and look for stars, instead he married them. Well, that does take the whole spreading out a blanket step out of the equation. And getting woken up by the sprinklers at five in the morning.  
He takes a deep breath, the thought that he’ll never be able to marry the boy he’s been in love with since he was fifteen hitting him again. A quick hard punch to the gut. Every time. He looks away. Hoping she didn’t see the tears rise in his eyes, the ones he manages to blink back.  
“Maybe you should ask him what the definition of wife is,” her voice is gentle but her stance is strengthening. Her expression growing stoney, right hand sliding towards her hip but remaining beneath the waistband of her shorts as they step out of the cover of forrest and into the open parking lot.  
It startles the hell out of Ian when she shouts, “Roberto, how the mighty have fallen. The debt collector, now, huh?”  
Looking up now to see three men standing around the SUV she’s been driving. The older one smiles at her, “don’t do me like that Ladybug. You know I’m settling into retirement here.”  
Ladybug? She doesn’t look like someone who would ever be called ladybug.  
“Stay two feet behind me and don’t say a fucking word,” she hisses at him. Her stride not slowing, stance not weakening, “retirement, demotion. Tomato. Tomate,” she stops when she’s about a foot away from Roberto, “why the fuck you follow me all the way out here now? ‘Stead of waitin’ for our scheduled meeting?”  
“Oh Ladybug,” he reaches out towards her face but she ducks back. He smiles wistfully, “I always loved your long hair, but even I must admit this dyke look suits you,” he smirks before his tone turns warning, “Alec says you got one week to finish the job.”  
She snorts at him, “don’t give a fuck what Alec says. We made a fuckin’ deal. I got ’til the leaves turn. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”  
“A deal, a deal,” he sucks his teeth, looking her over from head to toe.  
“Yes a fucking deal is a fucking deal. But looks like your incompetent fucks let one through anyway. What, ten stitches in his gut? Seems like I should get a fuckin’ discount price then. What do you say Roberto? An extra day for every stitch? Or take a grand off for every stitch? Up to you. Or you gotta run it by Alec first?”  
“I’ve always had a soft spot for you Ladybug,” every time he uses the name, it seems to only strengthen her resolve, “but you’re talking nonsense now.”  
“Twelve,” Ian interrupts.  
“What’s that, faggot?” one of the younger guys spits at the ground towards his feet.  
“Twelve stitches,” he clears his throat.  
Lou snickers, “twelve fuckin’ days or twelve fuckin’ grand. Your choice Berto.”  
“Twelve,” he grunts, giving a nod to the one who spit while his eyes wander Ian’s face now. The younger guy comes closer, stopping near Ian. He’s shorter but he’s doing his best to posture. He maintains eye contact, thinking their odds are fair. Three of them. The old guy looks like he’s been around, that could either make him extremely dangerous or just running out of steam. The younger guys are just enforcers. Built by lifting weights. Ian’s pretty certain Lou is built from circumstances and determination. It’s been awhile since Ian has been in a fist fight, but he knows guys like this. They tire easily. They may have the muscles, but they lack the endurance and grit.  
“Twelve, huh? Well maybe Carrot Top gets twelve stitches of his own and…”  
Lou’s reaction is quick. She’s got the guy’s wind pinched off with her left hand, backed up against their Mercedes. Ian hears a gun being drawn, glancing quickly to see Roberto pressing down on the wrist of the armed enforcer. In her right hand is a blade, pressed flush to the guy’s groin, “Carrot Top’s part of the protection plan fuckwit. You so much as look at him one more time you’ll find out how sharp this blade is. I’m willing to bet it’ll cut through your little pene like a hot knife through butter. Might make a nice little snack for Berto’s pit bull, huh? Yeah, Charlize seems like the kind of girl that would love a little pene for desert.”  
Roberto snickers, “okay, okay. You’ve made your point Ladybug. No one’s touching Carrot Top, alright?”  
She releases her grip, taking a few steps back, keeping the knife out and open, her gaze steady on the man she just threatened until he backs away with his hands up, “so here’s the fuckin’ deal Berto, in case you forgot. I got ’til the leaves turn to finish the fuckin’ job. Like we fuckin’ agreed. And you’ll get the rest of the cash when you tell me how to find Billy, alright? You come at me again when it ain’t a designated meetin’ then maybe it’s your pene Charlize snacks on, got me?”  
He smirks again but can’t hide the respect in his expression, “alright Ladybug. Alright, but only because I still have a soft spot for that fire in you.”  
She stays statue still until their Mercedes is long gone. Then she sighs, walking over to the SUV and tossing their packs in back. Climbing in without a word to head home. About an hour into the drive when she finally says, “less you know, the better off you are. Don’t ask questions, erase those fucks from your memory. They ain’t after you. Okay?” her head turns to look over at him. Intensity in her gaze, she waits for his nod before she continues, “thing is Mickey took the head, neck, and torso off the proverbial snake down in Mexico. Don’t mean there ain’t still some parts rattling around in that godforsaken place. Alec, Berto, and these little fish think they have some space in the pond down there. Thing is, it ain’t a pond, it’s a fuckin’ ocean and they won’t ever be sharks. The only shark in Chicago that’s got a fuckin’ fin in the ocean…” she trails off. Searching for an explanation without an explanation, settling on, “takes a parasite to take down a shark,” watching the road whirring past in front of them for a long time before she sighs, looking over his way and pleading, “don’t say anything to Mickey please.”  
“Couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he assures her, “as far as I’m concerned that meeting in the parking lot was off the books,” no way in Hell Mickey wouldn’t get involved if he knew what she was up to. And at this point, looks like neither one of them can allow him to get involved.  
It’s exactly 6:00 when she pulls up to the curb in front of the Gallagher house. Mickey is exactly a block away. His signature confident strut with a gym bag thrown over his right shoulder. He nods a calm greeting at the two of them still sitting inside the vehicle. Ian can’t seem to leave just yet. He looks over at her, wondering if she’s the guardian angel Mickey needed all these years. When she feels his gaze, she looks back and he wonders, “how did you know?”  
“How did I know what?”  
“That I wanted to jump?”  
She shrugs, her lips pressing together gently while she watches his eyes, seemingly watching his soul, “ain’t that hard to see,” she sighs, “you’d do anything for him. Now get the fuck outta my car before I change my mind about not killing you.”  
“Okay, okay,” he smiles at her and she winks, as he’s pushing the door open, he wonders, “you wanna stay for dinner?”  
“The fuck would I do that for? I’ve had about all I can stand of you for one lifetime today, besides I got a shark to see about.”  
“You sure? You gotta be hungry by now,” he urges. There’s just something about this damn woman. As much as he wants her to go away, he wants her to just fucking stay.  
“Nah. Maybe tomorrow.”  
“Okay. Tomorrow,” he agrees before pushing his door shut.  
She pulls away without so much as speaking to Mickey. Maybe a wave or a nod as she passes him by.  
“Fuck’s that about? You two goin’ all Thelma and Louise on me?” he wonders.  
“Nope,” he grins at the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, leaning down to kiss his cheek when he’s near enough, “Brad Pitt’s way overrated.”  
“Well he sure ain’t no Seagal.”  
“Still with Seagal Mick, really?”  
“Why the fuck not?” he wonders as they walk the steps up the porch hand in hand. Ian only half listening as Mickey lists off all the reasons Seagal could kick Van Damme’s ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this mean the theory that she's able to fulfill the role of Mickey's stable partner is blown to pieces?


	36. Muffled Words And A Sweaty Grip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking from the nightmares.

Muffled Words And A Sweaty Grip

Ian wakes before his alarm. Leaning forward to press his nose into Mickey’s neck. Being met with a river of sweat, he pulls back, eyes opening quickly. As the feeling starts spreading to the rest of his body he realizes Mickey is soaked. Entire body. Like fresh out of the shower without a towel soaked. Hands clamped tight into fists, the sheets balled up in his sweaty grip. His face is aimed into the pillow. He’s speaking quietly, words too muffled to hear.   
He leans over his shoulder, feeling first at his forehead. No fever. Then pressing the pillow away from his mouth, wondering if he can make out any of the words. At first it sounds like complete nonsense but then a few words start filtering through.   
“Stop,” he breathes anxiously, “stop. Don’t,” his hands clenching and unclenching, “don’t touch her. Don’t touch her,” it falls away into heavy breathing for a moment before he whimpers out, “it was me.”  
The whimper does Ian in, reaching now to lay a hand on his shoulder-blade, “Mickey,” he whispers gently, he knows how hard the guy startles on a regular basis when he’s awoken unexpectedly, “Mickey,” rubbing a small circle on his slick bare skin, “you’re okay. Mick…”  
He startles hard. His elbow flinging back catches Ian in the gut, he barely bites back a yelp as he watches Mickey’s face turn from sheer panic to confusion, back to panic as he pushes over Ian and out of the bedroom. He gets up to follow, prodding at his stomach with the tips of his fingers to dull the pain.   
He knocks on the closed bathroom door, no response. Shower faucet. Followed by the curtain. He knocks again. Still no response.   
Fuck it, he lets himself in. Takes a seat on the closed toilet lid. The shower not enough to hide the sound of his hitched breathing.   
Ian knows what it’s like to have too many fucking things in his head to be able to reel any of them in. He knows what it’s like to have the tangled rampant emotions take possession of his body. And he also knows that concerned glances and coddling will be the exact opposite of helpful.   
So he waits.   
A fist slams down on the door a couple of times, “better not be using all the hot water,” Debbie demands.  
“Not,” he reassures her. He knows Mickey is standing under a stream of cold water right now. And even if he did use all the hot water, Debbie could just deal with it.   
When the faucet turns off, Ian hands a towel over the curtain. His breathing sounds normal so he leaves the bathroom. What he wants is to wrap him up in his arms, but that’s not what Mickey wants right now. Panic can be a cruel bitch. From the outside a hug may seem like the right thing, but from the inside it’s that feeling of a million ants crawling all over your skin, your chest being too tight for your lungs, suffocating on your own breath. So a human touch feels about like a hot poker. Until that panic ebbs.  
He starts on peeling the wet sheets off the bed. Hearing the bathroom door open and Debbie snobbing, “took long enough.”  
Listening as the dresser drawer opens. Boxers, pants, t-shirt. Dressed and beside him, removing pillow cases to add to the pile of dirty sheets. Not saying a word. Avoiding eye contact. Breakfast is silent. The walk to the gym is silent. A sideways glance now and then to note the tension starting to recede from his strong shoulders. Waiting, knowing he’ll reach out when he’s ready. It isn’t until they’re nearly to the door when his clammy hand finally slides into Ian’s, giving one quick reassuring pulse before pulling away. Disappearing through the door of the gym without a glance.   
Ian shoves his hands in his pockets, turning on his heal and heading back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personal note: My husband is a combat veteran with PTSD and a trigger of crowds, and I am a spazz with social anxiety. Sometimes in public we are reduced to a carefully choreographed dance of panicky sideways glances and clammy hands reaching to grasp a tense shoulder to quickly remind the other that we're still there. My husband's story is told through campfire stories after one too many, certain looks in his eye after certain seemingly innocent statements are made, mumbled words into his pillow at night and blank spaces where there is no use for words. Maybe someday I'll have the pieces to put the puzzle back together, and maybe I won't. But either way I'll be that hand on his shoulder blade calling him back to reality when the blank spaces won't let go of his mind.


	37. My Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few more insights into Mexico.

My Wife

He sits on his cot. Head in his hands. Listening to her strangled breaths. Her back toward his side of the room.  
Fuck. He knew it’d be hard to say goodbye to Rosa. But the way she clung to his hand. The pleading in her eyes.  
Josefina had to restrain her so she wouldn’t run after them. He didn’t do what she asked, saying his goodbyes the night before. He needed to be there when they dropped her off. If for none other reason, he knew Lou couldn’t do it alone. They didn’t speak on the way home. Her ball cap and aviators hiding her eyes. But her grip on the steering wheel white-knuckled.  
They did their normal work out routine. Worked on the new structure. Ate dinner. Visited at the main house. Pretending that everything was okay. That the world wasn’t closing in around them. That there wasn’t a giant weight resting squarely on their chests suffocating them slowly. Pretending they could still find a way out of this alive.  
But now, in the silence and stillness of their close quarters, the space they’ve been sharing for about a year and half, the space that seemed so small for so long. Now it may as well be miles from his cot to hers. The walls are starting to crumble, the foundation shaking violently.  
Fuck. If it’s ending and it’s ending soon, it won’t be like this.  
He gets up, taking the few steps across the floor. Where she burned her certificates, telling him, ‘materials can be replaced. Friends can be replaced. Only thing that can’t is life’. He doesn’t believe it. Not for a minute. Friends can’t be replaced. Not friends like this.  
He slides in behind her, leaning in close to her body.  
“Please don’t,” she gasps.  
He doesn’t listen, knowing her reasons for saying it. Knowing she put her heart out there, and now it’s shattering into a million pieces for a million reasons. He finds her hands shoved under her pillow, grasping them tightly in his own. He presses his lips against the curve of her spine, whispering gently, “you’re my wife Lou. You’ll always be my wife.”  
————  
He lays down on his side facing Ian. Watching his eyes across the bed. He doesn’t know what to say about this morning. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what to say about dinner. So he doesn’t. Ian had seemed strangely excited to have a dinner guest. But she never showed. He wasn’t surprised.  
He doesn’t say it. Like so many things.  
Instead he reaches out. Groping for and finding Ian’s hand on the sheet between them.  
————  
“You need to stop calling me that,” she whispers towards the wall.  
“Why? It’s true. You’re my female partner. Training parter, running partner, sleeping partner, and my partner in taking down a cartel,” he leaves out the part where they were partners in child rearing for the last few months, “my Mexican wife. I meant my vows. And I’ll mean them for the rest of my life.”  
“I should have known.”  
“Known what?”  
“With that pretty face, your love of cock, your need for hand-holding, and pillow-talking. Your belief that love exists and is lifelong. You’re just a seven year old girl,” her voice cracks, “who believes in fairy tales and Prince Charming.”  
He’d laugh if she wasn’t crying, “I do believe in love. And maybe it is the thing that’ll kill me eventually. And Lou, I…”  
“Don’t,” she interrupts, “don’t you dare say it.”  
“Why not? It’s true.”  
“Because if you say it, then it’s real. It isn’t a lie that some man named Roberto tells you when your father trades you for his finest heroin. If it isn’t a lie, then it’s a little girl you find naked on the side of the road one day. If it isn’t a lie then it’s your mother dying in front of your eyes. And if it isn’t a lie, then it’s some pretty-eyed, pretty-faced gay boy that you wanted to fuck one night to forget there’s such thing as rape. And fear. And self-loathing. And weakness,” she chokes off, “and it turns out that the biggest weakness of all is believing that lie. Believing for the last few months that love is real. And believing that it doesn’t hurt. Believing that it doesn’t kill you in the end.”  
————  
“I’m sorry.”  
“For what?”  
“This morning.”  
“What’s to be sorry about?”  
“That’s not something you should have to deal with.”  
“Well you don’t get to decide what I’ll deal with, do you?” he smiles, reaching out to touch Mickey’s face gently, running his thumb along his jaw, watching him for a long time, “maybe someday you’ll tell me about Mexico. Maybe you won’t. Either way, I’m here.”  
————  
They came that night.  
They came with guns.  
They came with knives.  
They came with ropes.  
They came with a macuahuitl.  
They came with destruction.  
They came with blood.  
They came with pain.  
And they came with death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That got more emotional than I intended, but I think it was necessary.  
> Sorry if it ends up being a cliffhanger, I'm hoping to still get some time to work out a few more chapters over the holidays, but I'm guessing I'll be pretty busy.  
> For those of you still with me, thank you! I have not abandoned you!


	38. Remembering To Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A question that needs asking.

Remembering To Forget

She’s leaning nonchalantly against the fence, ankles crossed, watching the cars go by. He just walked Mick to work. Making a habit of it. Seems like the right thing to do at this stage in their relationship. Ian’s never had this stage, doubts Mickey has either. Sure, they’re sleeping in the same bed at night, but they’ve not had sex yet. Sticking to the plan of taking it slow. It’s been hard as hell to keep himself back some nights, most nights. Well, all nights honestly.   
She doesn’t turn her head when he nears, instead pushing off the fence, calling towards him, “C’mon El Gingero, got something to show you.”  
“Where?”  
“You’ll see.”  
“What is it?”  
“Just follow me,” she demands.  
“Why? So you can dodge dinner again?”  
“Fuck, I said maybe. Not definitely.”  
“You could have at least called. Or texted.”  
“Yeah? With what?”  
“A fuckin’ phone.”  
“All that vibratin’ and dingin’ and constantly interrupting your thoughts and your life. ’S no wonder this country is goin’ to hell in a hand-basket. Nobody gives a fuck about anything anymore except their Insta-face-twat-fuck-gram-posts, and how many fuckin’ followers and friends they got on the goddamned internet,” she removes the joint that was tucked behind her ear, “fuck that shit.”  
Shaking his head to himself, but he does follow. If nothing else, he just wants to hear her say whatever she just said about social media again. Taking a few jogging steps to catch up with her ridiculously long stride, “so I take it you don’t tweet?”  
“Fuck’s that s’posed to mean?”  
“Twitter.”  
She snorts a response, taking a long toke, blowing her exhale away from Ian, “can you smoke on your meds? Or on your disorder? Or whatever part of it that would be effected?”  
“Shouldn’t.”  
“K,” she pinches the lit end between her fingers and slides it back behind her ear. He notices now the bruised knuckles, look like a day or two old.   
“Won’t kill me to be around it,” he tells her.  
“I’m bein’ polite. Take it, don’t happen often.”  
“How long did you live in Detroit?”   
“Long enough to know I ain’t stickin’ around for a fuckin’ winter.”  
“I was mostly just wondering about your accent, but okay.”  
“Oh my accent, eh? That ain’t Detroit. That’s snark and sarcasm. Comes out like that no matter where you’re from.”  
He laughs despite himself, looking over at her to see a satisfied grin on her face. They don’t say much for the rest of the walk. He doesn’t know what else to ask her, seems like there are a hundred things he should ask, but isn’t really sure he wants to know any of the answers anyway. So he settles into a comfortable walking pace next to her and a comfortable silence between them.   
It’s an apartment building she stops in front of. One he probably should have noticed before, but never has. She walks in, up to the fourth and final floor, the building is old, worn in, but clean. 4A. The door is green. She shoves it open without unlocking it and steps inside. It’s a clean little studio apartment. Fully furnished. Two big windows facing the East.   
The only sign of anyone living here is the hiking pack on the couch.  
“You living here?” he wonders.  
“Nah. You are.”  
“I am?”  
“You and pretty boy. Just gotta sign the lease by Friday. Rent is paid for a year. Long as you ain’t a couple of dipshits about money, it’ll be well within your price range.”  
“Why?”  
“‘Cause two grown men shouldn’t be sharin’ a place with a troop of immature hard-partying kids.”  
“But I mean, why are you doing all this?”  
“All what? Findin’ a cheap shithole apartment ain’t hard.”  
“And paying for it. And getting Mickey a job. And paying his tuition.”  
“I got him an interview. He got himself the job,” she sighs, looking him over from head to toe before shrugging. Without answering she turns to walk across the living space, stepping up on the table by the window, shoving it open and stepping out onto the fire escape, “c’mon.”  
He follows her up, it’s a little bit of a jump, and a little bit of a pull-up to get over the ledge of the roof. Once up top she sits on the ledge on the opposite side. Legs dangling over the building wall.  
“I’m not jumping,” he warns her.  
“I ain’t askin’ you to jump. Just sit the fuck down.”  
He does as he’s told. Well, sort of. Perching on the inner side of the ledge, keeping all body parts solidly on the rooftop, “so, um, how’d you find this place? I’ve been checking listings for months.”  
“Wasn’t listed.”  
“Oh,” he waits. But she doesn’t answer the question, “so, um what…”  
“‘Cause you got questions you wanna ask me still,” her hand rises to find the joint behind her ear. Taking it back out, but not lighting it. Gently rolling it back and forth between her fingers.   
He finds himself locked in a seemingly endless string of questions that won’t fully come into focus. If Mickey wants him to know what happened in Mexico, he’ll tell him. If Mickey wants him to know the full extent of his relationship with this woman, he’ll tell him. He knows that. And he trusts that. And does it truly matter anyway? Whatever they had seems to have changed Mickey for the better. And it’s clear in Ian’s mind that Mickey is trying to build their relationship back up in a healthy, open, loving way. If he had stronger feelings for Lou, he’d be with her.   
Her head turns. She slides her sunglasses off, it reveals two black eyes and an open invitation to ask whatever the fuck he wants, so he does, “you knew Mickey and I were back together. So why’d you two fuck?”  
“Right down to it, huh?” she sighs, “good for you. You might have a tiny pussy somewhere in there El Gingero,” smirking at him but never losing full focus on his eyes. Her face grows serious, lips pressing together slightly for a moment, “you want bullshit about closure, and passion, and the body acting without the head’s input? Like I saw his pretty fuckin’ face without blood all over it for the first time in over three years, I heard his fuckin’ voice, and I had to touch him to make sure he was real? When last I saw him none of it was real,” she sighs. Her focus shifts to the joint in her hands again. The split on her right middle finger looks infected, “it couldn’t be real,” she half-whispers before her gaze rises again, “truth is, sometimes the body needs to remember to be able to forget.”  
She stops looking at him, tilting her sunglasses back down. Watching the joint in her hands for a long silent moment, before grunting, “fuck it,” lighting it back up, and smoking the whole thing without saying another word. She’s not going to apologize about it, and he kind of respects her for that. When she starts speaking again, it’s quiet, “so a shitty neighborhood, a homophobic abusive father, a forced marriage, infidelity, unmedicated bipolar disorder, prison, borders. What now?”  
“Fuck,” he sighs, “I guess something normal. And boring. Jobs, classes, a shitty apartment.”  
“Holding hands and innocent kisses.”  
“Celebrating holidays.”  
“Fighting over who’s turn it is to clean the bathroom.”  
“Home-cooked meals and going to bed before midnight.”  
“Getting a little dog that wears fuckin’ booties in the winter.”  
He laughs, picturing Mickey walking an ankle-biter in the middle of a polar vortex, “doubt that. Maybe a goldfish.”  
“Sounds really fuckin’ boring,” she snorts but there’s a wistful smile rising on her face., she stifles it quickly, turning to eye him again, “bullshit and immaturity get left behind. Now,” she half-phrases it as a question, but it’s a demand.   
He nods his agreement, getting the distinct impression it’ll be his pene that Charlize ends up snacking on if he breaks that agreement.


	39. It's Only You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smutty smutty smut, smut, smut, smut, smuuuuuuuttttt

It’s Only You

The hiking pack was gone when they moved their stuff in. Sometimes it’s on the fire escape outside the window. Sometimes it’s on the roof with a rolled up bedroll. Most times it’s nowhere to be seen. And neither is she.  
But Ian finds himself sitting on the roof from time to time after he walks Mickey to work. This was the first week of school. The first of the Autumn leaves are starting to turn. the mornings are cooling back. The heat of the day quickly dissipating into the evening air. Ian has always liked the season changes. Nature’s reminder that nothing is permanent. Nothing is stagnant. Even the coldest winters thaw into spring.  
He brought his dinner up here tonight. Eating alone, something he’ll have to do a lot of nights with Mick working mornings and taking classes in the evenings. He doesn’t mind it so much. He grew up in a hectic mess of people and noise. And now, up here, he feels a distance. A comfortable distance from the noise. A place for his thoughts to roam.   
As he scrapes his plate clean he watches the gray rain clouds gathering on the horizon and he can’t help but to wonder if she’s got a warm place to stay tonight. They haven’t spoken of her. But she’s a presence in their relationship nonetheless. Not an uncomfortable presence. Not unwanted. Just sort of lingering there in some of the empty spaces. And that’s okay.  
Some mornings he leaves a thermos of coffee and a bag lunch out by her pack. Some evenings it’s still there. And some it’s not.  
He cleans the kitchen and gets to work on his homework for the night. He’s so engrossed in his reading an hour later that he doesn’t hear the door open. The music in his earbuds muffling the sound of it closing. The sound of Mick’s gym bag and school bag landing on the hardwood floor. His footsteps across the living area.  
The laptop snaps shut on him, his earbuds are gone in one swipe and Mickey is in his lap. Facing him with a wicked arch to his brow, a quick smile, a deep kiss. T-shirt being yanked off his head. Hot kisses trailing down his neck, his chest. Mickey sliding off his lap onto the floor. Between Ian’s knees working at his belt.  
Ian’s hands come down on his tattooed fingers, “hold on.”  
They’ve been having sex again. And it’s been… fuck, it’s been incredible. Better than ever. But Ian wants to try something different tonight. His heart lurches in his chest when those ocean eyes meet his from where he’s perched between his knees.  
“You said,” sliding his fingers between Mickey’s on the hand that’s come to rest on Ian’s knee, “you said you’d fuck me some day. When we had the time and the space.”  
It takes him a beat, scanning Ian’s face for a moment, “here? Now?” eyebrows both rising.  
“Yeah, why not?” his cheeks are getting warm at the thought. It’s just Mickey, he can say anything to him. He knows that. But the heat that’s rising is more a fear of being rejected than embarrassment.   
He sighs, sitting back on his butt on the floor, “I don’t know. Why we gotta switch it up? I like the way we do things.”  
“You don’t wanna fuck me? That it?”  
“No…”  
“But you fuck your wife,” he’s not sure why that came out. Lingering jealousy that he didn’t realize existed.   
“Fucked,” he clarifies, “but that’s different.”  
“How’s it different?” he’s not sure if he should be hurt, or angry at himself all over again for not just crossing the border with him in the first place and changing the entire story. Then that part of him that Ian may never know, it wouldn’t exist.  
“Well for starters she ain’t got a cock, so…”  
Fighting with a blur of frustration, he gets to his feet suddenly. Heading to the door.  
“Where you goin’?”  
He’s stepping into his shoes, shaking his head when Mickey grabs his arm, “you’re actually pissed? Why’s it matter who’s fuckin’ who? If it’s both of us then…”  
“‘Cause I’ve never bottomed with you. And I fuckin’ want to, alright?! How many guys you bottom with? I know you’ve topped before. I know you did in juvie ‘cause you didn’t want to end up somebody’s bitch. Did you in prison? What about Mexico? You’ll power fuck a stranger in the joint but you won’t top your own boyfriend when he wants it? What the fuck Mick?”  
His hand meets his face, the heals of his palms rubbing vigorously into his eyes, “you’re it Ian,” he admits almost bashfully when his eyes rise, blinking the fog he created away slowly.  
“It?”  
“Only guy I’ve ever bottomed for.”  
“Huh?”  
His eyebrows are practically part of his hairline when he nods, “yeah. It’s only you.”  
“But you… but the first time we… that was… your first…”  
“Yeah.”  
“But why? I mean, how? It was… you said spit lube wouldn’t work, you said time and space, and foreplay, and…”  
He stalks over to the couch and plops down on it. Running his hands over his face with a defeated sigh, “you come in my room actin’ all tough like you ever stood a chance of beating my ass. Even with a tire iron,” he smirks, eyes twinkling when they land on Ian, “I don’ know. You were so soft and… innocent. But something about it… I don’ know. Everything I did in that house, it had to be well planned and controlled. I had to act a certain way to avoid any additional ass beatings. I had to do things I didn’t want to do to be able to eat a damn meal. I had to control every single aspect down to every single fuckin’ detail. Stifle everything about me that could piss my dad off. But for some reason,” his hands run through his inky black hair and he takes a deep breath, “fuck. Like it was totally okay to give you the control. I wanted it that way. I knew it would feel safe,” he shrugs.  
Stepping out of his shoes and making his way back to the couch. He sits down next to his partner with a sigh, hand landing on his knee, “so it’s like it’s only special if you bottom ‘cause you’ve only ever bottomed with me and if we switch it up it’ll be just like everybody else you’ve fucked? Except Lou,” he thinks to add quietly. That had to be different. They had to have something special.  
“You think I’m some kinda sappy bitch? Special? The fuck?” but he can’t hide the smile that’s rising.   
He reaches out to take Mick’s chin in his hand, turning his face towards his own before planting a soft kiss on his forehead, “so maybe I want special. More special than what we already have. I’ve only bottomed for a silicone cock, so a real one…”  
“Silicone? The fuck? A fuckin’ dildo?”  
“Yeah, I dated a transgender…”  
“You let some guy shove a dildo up your ass? Jesus Christ Ian,” his eyes roll, “take your fuckin’ clothes off. I’ll show you how to do this shit the right way. A fuckin’ dildo,” snorting as he gets to his feet to strip naked.  
It’s in Ian’s fibers to want to lay him down and love him, only him. He loves being inside Mickey. He loves the way his eyes roll shut when he pushes in. Every time. He loves that surprised look his eyebrows take when he uses the full length of himself. He loves the way his breathing gets huffy and his entire body contracts when he comes. He loves that glazed over look in his eyes when he’s finished. And they’re lying together, wrapped in each other, and there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. No one else he’d rather be with.   
Doesn’t take Mick much time to get him positioned where he wants him. Doesn’t take much time to slick up his fingers and slide the first one in. His incredible dick-sucking skills being put to use. But slower than usual, dragging it out. Taking time to pause and linger. The second finger makes Ian want to push back but Mickey starts circling his pinky around his rim in half circles. Giving a tickling sensation to stifle the stretch. His free hand rubbing at Ian’s balls.   
“Oh fuck,” when Mickey takes the full shaft down his throat. Hold it, just hold it. Sparks starting to rise in his lids right before Mickey draws back. The suction disappearing from his cock. The tingles receding slowly. Of course he’d know. Of course Mick would know when to pull back to make this last. Guy’s always known how to get exactly what he wants out of Ian exactly when he wants it.   
A third finger has Ian fighting with himself to stay put. Deep breath as Mick’s movements stall momentarily, “you good?”   
“Yeah,” a gasp, “keep going.”  
“Look at me then.”  
Sighing, blinking at the ceiling twice before tilting his gaze down to where Mickey’s gorgeous face is hovering over his lower abdomen, “I’m good.”  
“Keep ‘em open for now.”  
Nod. But watching his man taking his cock in his mouth again is only making the situation more dire. Visual stimulation on top of the physical, it’s too much. It’s, “I…”  
He stops. Releasing his cock and drawing his fingers back.   
“No, don’t stop,” gasping for air, “don’t stop. I want…”  
“Just a break,” assuring. He leans down, chest to chest. Watching his face for a long moment, compassion lighting up his pretty eyes before he leans in. Kissing delicately at first. A slow burning, aching passion building up between them before his hand slides down the back of Ian’s thigh. Grasping his asscheek, rubbing against his bare skin. Slowly sliding towards the center. Starting the process over again with one finger. Lips not leaving Ian’s. Kisses growing in passion and desperation.   
This time Ian’s focus is elsewhere. It’s on the kisses. It’s on the feel of Mickey’s chest against his. On the way it feels to breathe him in. To taste his mouth. On the way it feels as though the world is closing in around him but opening up to something indescribable. Something that there’s no way in hell he’d ever feel with anyone but Mick. He grasps Mick’s face in his hands. Wanting to grab back some of the control. Wanting to force his mouth to stay put. To stay against his own as he angles their bodies to the right positioning. He’s not going to let go. He’s not going to let Mickey slide inside of him without having his lips against his. He’s not going to… flinch.  
Mickey’s pelvis pulls back again. Damnit, he thought he’d done a better job of hiding that. He doesn’t break the make-out. This time angling differently. Taking his cock and Ian’s in his hands together. Rubbing them both to a point of near ejaculation. Breathing heavily into each other’s mouths. His fingers let go slightly of where they’ve dug into the back of Mick’s neck. Relaxing with certainty that his mouth is going nowhere. It’s staying locked onto his. Exactly where Ian wants it. Feeling the desperation dying back. Slowing down to something more tender. Something sweeter and gentler.   
This time when he guides himself past the threshold it’s comfortable. Staying still for a moment, kissing tenderly against Ian’s mouth. Pulling his face back for just long enough to get a solid glimpse of Ian’s eyes. Open now, watching the overwhelming blue of Mickey’s. Forehead to forehead as he begins rocking slowly, gently. Bursting a feeling inside Ian that he’s never experienced before. There are sparks floating through the air behind Mickey. Crossing his open eyes. His fingertips are getting numb. His breath is lodged in his chest. His heart beating in his ears. He feels himself grind back against Mickey, taking all of him with a gasp before lifting his head to press into his mouth. He’s going to come, it’s going to happen soon and he needs to feel Mickey’s mouth against his own when it happens. It’s the only thing keeping him here. Right here. Nothing else exists. It’s just Mickey’s mouth against his own and a feeling of being so full he’s bound to loose the control he’s gained over his mind in the last few years. He can feel it. The edges starting to crumble. The thoughts starting to race. The obsessive echoing in his mind. And then it explodes into a mass of sparks and colors swirling together and blasting apart again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I guess that depends on your definition of smut. I suppose it's love.   
> So I don't really know how believable it is that Mickey never would have bottomed with anyone else, but in case no one has realized this yet - it's fiction, I do what I want.  
> Regardless of how we feel about some of the routes taken in Ian's romantic life post-Mickey - I believe we can all agree that he deserved something better than some awkward pre-sex discussions and dancing, followed by 'ow'.


	40. Cry Like Some Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-sex Mickey is still Mickey.

Cry Like Some Bitch

He holds him until the initial quaking subsides. Keeping his face pressed against his even when the moisture of tears starts meeting his skin. He waits. Until he takes a deep calm breath. Until the death grip on the back of his neck relaxes. Until he knows he’s sorted through some of his reaction in his own mind.  
Then he leans back just far enough to watch his tear-filled green eyes, with a smirk announcing, “if I knew you’d cry like some bitch, I never would have agreed to this Gallagher.”  
A content smile rises, watching Mickey for a long time before his hand slides down to wipe the tears off his own cheeks. Mickey leans forward, kissing the skin as he dries it.  
He’s felt that intensity plenty of times with Ian. That feeling like everything is happening too quickly yet if it slowed down it would stop his heart, “I love you,” he whispers, watching his green galaxy spinning slowly now. Glazed over and starting to calm. Reeling back some of the emotions that have started to run rampant in his head. Honestly if he’d thought it through to a point of pushing him towards an episode, he really wouldn’t have agreed to it. Too bad they didn’t get this out of the way when they were younger, before the diagnosis. Sex to the brink of insanity would never have been a worry back then. He nuzzles Ian’s nose with his own, “you good? Grounded?”  
“Grounded,” he responds immediately with a shaky voice, “don’t go.”  
“I’m not,” he promises, pressing a long kiss into his lips. Red and tender from making out. Starting to feel exhaustion pulling at him. Working at the gym has been infuckingcredible. And exfuckinghausting. He was nervous as all fuck to be back in a classroom for the fist time since he was fourteen. But this time, it’s okay to want to learn. It’s not something his dad can take from him now. He can read a book without anyone calling him a pussy for it. Only way he’ll miss class because of black eyes and broken bones will be of his own doing.  
Being back in Chicago, back in the old neighborhood, he has to remind himself often that Terry can’t take this now. He can’t control him. He can’t force him to hide anymore. He cannot take away this life that he’s building for himself. And for Ian.  
“I love you Mickey. So much. I don’t know…”  
“Alright alright,” cutting him off by kissing him once more, “let’s get washed up cupcake,” sliding away from him with a love tap to his cheek, “how the fuck you didn’t end up somebody’s bitch in the slammer. Beyond me. So fuckin’ beyond me,” he stops in the open bathroom doorway, “you still need reassurance that I love the fuck out of you? Or was that good enough proof?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Mickey shouted at Terry about how Ian gives it to him good and hard and he likes it. I've read a handful of fanfics that explore the rough aspect of their sex life. But we all know our bitch-slappin', shit-talkin', piece of Southside trash has a tender side a mile wide. And a lot of that tenderness and vulnerability that he's allowed himself to feel with Ian is something that I think would carry over into their bedroom, and probably show the most in those intimate moments.  
> So this next part is going to get rough. I apologize in advance for that. I've got some work to do on it before I post it. I want to make sure I'm walking the right lines before I hand it over.


	41. No Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skip to chapter 45 if you can't handle the violence.
> 
> WARNING: VIOLENCE, RAPE, AND A SERIOUS PSYCHOPATH
> 
> Here is where the horror begins. The chapter is called no apology, but I do apologize if this goes too far for anyone. Feel free to skip ahead, or feel free to stop reading. I won't blame you one bit if you jump ship now. Thanks for your time!
> 
> Just keep in mind that you've seen both Mickey and Lou after this, and they're both perfectly fine.

No Apology

The old woman’s eyes are young. It bothers Mickey. Tonight it’s all he can focus on. And tonight it’s bothering him more than anything. The way they’re focused on Martin. They way he’s looking back at her. There’s no apology between them. For the way they’ve lived their decades together. There’s no regret. There’s only a silent understanding that this day would come. And when it came, they would face it together.   
That eye contact doesn’t break. While Eduardo pushes them across the open yard. Hands bound at the wrists. Feet bound at the ankles.   
That eye contact doesn’t falter when they’re forced to their knees. It doesn’t break until Bruno forces Martin’s face down toward the dirt. And Eduardo swings the macuahuitl.  
————  
Mickey’s eyes spring open in the darkness. A deep breath that barely passes his throat. Eyes searching for and finding Ian’s face in the night. Hands frantically darting out from beneath the pillow, shaking as he reaches for the hand that he knows is on the mattress between them. Grasping it in a slippery sweaty grip.   
A single solitary gasp escapes his throat and Ian’s eyes open. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t startle. He just moves. Gently sliding his arms around Mickey’s shoulders, drawing him towards his chest. Leaning his face into the top of Mick’s head. Breathing. His heart beating a slow steady rhythm against his ribs. Mickey moves his hands, placing them flat over Ian’s slowly beating heart. Absorbing his rhythm. Making it his own. While he breathes.  
————  
She hasn’t flinched. She hasn’t blinked. She hasn’t made a sound.  
He tries to remember what Martin said. But when he thinks of Martin, his breath catches in his chest and he can’t see anything but that last calm glance he gave Lou and Mick as they dragged him past them. That slight nod towards Lou. That one a parent gives their child on their first day of school, the one that sums up the entire relationship in one look.  
“She’s been here before mi hijo. Ella es una luchadora,” with a reassuring nod before he took his leave that night.   
Ella es una luchadora. She’s a fighter.   
He closes his eyes when the whip makes contact with her bare back again. The wet slapping sound echoing off the walls.   
A hand clamps down on the hair at the crown of his head, yanking his face upwards, “eyes open Gringo. Or I cut them out,” sneering before he spits in Mick’s face, releasing his hair.   
————  
He didn’t realize the tears were falling until he felt them on Ian’s bare skin. Wiping at them with both hands as if that will make them go away. As if that will make the memories go away.  
————  
He’s growing bored of her. Her silence and stillness, not giving anything away.   
Mickey keeps swallowing stomach acid. The gag tied around his mouth soaked with blood, drool, and the acid that he couldn’t swallow.   
Eduardo keeps looking at him. Watching Mickey’s face for a reaction. As his hands slide up her blood-soaked back. Fingers in the divots left by the whip. Every time he thrusts in from behind her, his smile gets more twisted. The twinkle in his eye more devious.   
He keeps reminding himself not to fear. Not to flinch. It’s what Eduardo wants.   
And every time he tries to look away, there’s Bruno, grabbing his hair. Pulling his head back.   
Her face is turned. Cheek down on the table. Hoping her gaze is blank. Hoping she’s found her safe place. Hoping Eduardo can’t break through those walls.   
The first shipment doesn’t go out until tomorrow. They were supposed to meet with Marco today. Make a deal. Get Mickey back in the US.   
Eduardo reaches for her head suddenly. Forcing it to turn. Forcing it back. Face aimed towards Mickey now. Her gaze is still, calm. Detached.   
Fuck. She’s been here before. But Mickey hasn’t. And when uncontrollable anger rises in his throat, Eduardo slams into her, a devilish smile on his face as he shudders. It passes. It passes quickly, barely detectably, right across her irises as she looks at Mick. Pain so raw it cuts through the space between them, knocking the breath out of his lungs.  
Eduardo leans forward against her back. Rubbing his face through the mural of reds he’s created on her flesh, “mmm, good girl,” he purrs at her.  
He wants to break. He wants to tell them everything they want to hear. But what the fuck is it? They can’t know about the bust yet, it hasn’t happened.   
He watches the blood dripping off her in rivulets onto the gold-flecked tile at her feet. Drip. Drip. Drip. As Eduardo backs away. Smearing the red stains across the floor with his bare feet. Crimson footprints following him to the winch as he cranks it. Hard, fast. Until her right shoulder snaps, every tendon and ligament exploding inside her skin. Ripping muscles, dislocation and the cracking of bones.   
Mickey can’t fight the vomit rising any longer. Leaning forward to let the acid and bile leak through the silk of the muzzle. He keeps retching violently once it begins. Each time being pushed back into his throat by his binding. And every time it pushes back into his throat he retches again. His head spinning, body spasming. He’s going to choke to death on his own vomit. His own fear. His own inability to ignore her pain. Cold sweats and swirling colors. Muted noises. The room closing in around him and the echo of her shoulder being destroyed the only thing in his head. Until it all goes dark.   
————  
He can feel Ian’s hands on his shoulder blades. Rubbing gently. Back and forth. Up and down. Bare skin on bare skin. Fingers sliding over the silky edge of a scar. Back and forth. Up and down. His breath in his hair. Warm, delicate. Heart steady against Mickey’s hands.   
He leans back suddenly. Wanting to look at his face. Desperate to see his eyes. To look at him and know he’s looking back. To know he’s still alive. He’s here, he’s here with Ian. Not in Mexico. Not there anymore. Never again.   
————  
He comes to crumpled forward on the floor in his own vomit. The binding on his face has been removed. Arms still clamped at the wrists to the wall. Ankles to the floor.  
She’s completely limp. The blood is still dripping. He can hear it now. Drip. Drip. Drip.   
They’re alone. He wants to call out to her. He wants to wake her. But he can see her breathing shallowly, knowing she’s alive, hoping she has no idea anymore what’s going on. And if he does call out, if it does wake her, she’ll know. She’ll know exactly where she is. Exactly what’s been done. If he sees her eyes, he’ll know her pain. And he’ll break.   
————  
Sliding a hand across Ian’s chest. Underneath his warm skin is a name. Mikhailo Aleksandr. His name. His name. Yet somehow it seems so foreign to him now.   
————  
“Don’t fear,” her voice comes out choked, garbled, “don’t break,” each word it’s own sentence, “no matter what they do to me. Don’t break.”  
She doesn’t turn her head. And she doesn’t speak again.   
————  
He wonders sometimes now. In moments like these, if he could have done things differently. If he could have called out. If he could have told him the things he wanted to hear. If it was fear that Eduardo wanted, Mickey would give it to him over and over. A million times over if it meant he’d stop hurting her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very nervous about these chapters involving the violence. I feel as though when writing violence, rape, abuse, all the horrors; there is a very fine line between not far enough and way too fucking far. I hope I am staying on that line while still making the reader feel on edge. I'll explain a little more in the chapters to come, and maybe take some time when the story is ended to discuss these choices further.   
> PS Are Rocky and Martin a different version of Ian and Mickey? No apologies between them, no regrets, and standing strongest together in the face of all odds.


	42. The Ocean At Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: VIOLENCE AND A SERIOUS PSYCHOPATH 
> 
> This is Eduardo. He creeped me out in my own head and he became so much more on paper.

The Ocean At Dawn

Sapphires. Eduardo’s favorite. The magnificent and holy sapphire. Stone of wisdom and royalty. Heavenly blue. Symbol of power and strength.   
Sapphires. He’s looking right at two of them.   
He kneels down in front of the pale skinned man. So beautiful.   
“Celestial,” he whispers, pressing the wooden handgrip of his whip under the man’s chin. Tilting his face up, “celestial Mikhailo,” he leans towards him, taking a deep breath of the man’s intoxicating scent, “it will be a heavenly experience Mikhailo,” trailing the man’s perfect jawline with his tongue. Tasting the salt of sweat and the sweet metallic flavor of blood.   
He sets the whip down on the floor. Taking the angelic face in his hands, “I told you I’d have you Mikhailo. You’d give yourself to me. Or I’d take you. It appears as though you’re playing hard to get.”  
He leans forward, tracing his tongue down the man’s delicate neck now. Stopping to suckle the skin at his Adam’s Apple. It bobs beneath his lips with a hard swallow. Eduardo’s hands slide down the surface of his chest. Black ink. A man’s name, “mmm, lucky man. This Ian Gallagher. Lucky man. But does he know about your woman? Hmm? What a woman. She is the ocean at dawn, hmm? Vastness. Depth. Sparkling on the surface. Secrets and mysteries in her dark places. No one really knows where she ends and where she begins,” he traces the letters of the tattoo with the tip of his tongue, “and this Ian Gallagher. What makes him so special, hmm? To win the heart of a specimen such as yourself Mikhailo. Hmm?” his hands sliding down the taut, hard muscles of his abdomen, “look at you. A prize fighter, hmm? Muay Thai. Stand-up striking and clinching. Punches, kicks, elbows and knees. Krav Maga. Efficient and brutal counter-attacks. Incapacitating the opponent by any means necessary. My favorite: Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. The smaller, weaker person can defend against a bigger, stronger, heavier opponent. Oh I watch you Mikhailo. And I watch your woman. She’s poetry in the fight. Was,” he corrects himself. The sound of her shoulder ripping apart sending a tingle straight to his dick, “ But you, you’re grit and dirt. Oh but something else too,” inhaling the scent of the man’s abdomen as his tongue swirls around his naval, “you’re something else Mikhailo. Celestial. Heavenly. Divine. Otherworldly. I will taste every single inch of you Mikhailo,” he promises as he rises, replacing the gag before returning to the woman, “when I’m done with her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I led up to him being a complete psychopath whenever he was mentioned in previous chapters. He is. He gets off on fear and pain and he'll use those to get whatever he wants. Without his father to keep him in check, he's going to do whatever he wants to fulfill his pleasures.


	43. Don't Hurt Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: VIOLENCE AND A SERIOUS PSYCHOPATH 
> 
> Eduardo using whatever means necessary to get what he wants.

Don’t Hurt Her

He can’t tell if she’s breathing anymore. He can’t hear it. He can only hear the drip. Drip. Drip. On the tiles. Slowing now. Slowing. But still drip. Drip. Dripping. The puddle on the gold-flecked tile growing.   
His eyes haven’t left her form. He wants her to move. Something. Anything. Just to know she’s still alive. If she died, if he was right here for her last breath, and he didn’t see it, he’ll never forgive himself. If he didn’t know it happened, then she was alone.  
The door swings open, “I brought you both a gift,” Eduardo sneers. His hand travels the length of Lou’s back on his way past her. Before clenching into a fist and slamming down on her shoulder. The pain startles her eyes open.   
A barely audible, “no,” whispers past her lips as Bruno enters the room with a little girl in his grip. Rosa.  
————  
He finds himself watching Ian sleep. Something he hasn’t been able to do himself lately. Lying here still. Silent. Watching him, knowing he’s sleeping easy. His sleep isn’t interrupted by Mickey’s nightmares. He’ll stay awake all night if it means not disturbing Ian. He can’t chance being a burden on him. He has enough to deal with on a regular basis. He doesn’t need to help carry the weight on Mickey’s shoulders.  
————  
“Don’t hurt her,” he pleads.  
“I don’t hurt her,” Eduardo smiles. But there’s something cruel in the expression, “I don’t hurt her Mikhailo,” he takes the child by the shoulders, the back of his right hand caressing her cheek delicately, “I don’t hurt her.”  
What the fuck does this guy want? He can’t know about the Feds. Nothing has happened yet. There’s nothing to know.  
“My father,” turning his face into the little girl’s dark hair. Her eyes close on contact. Her grip tightening on the doll in her small hands. She’s trembling, “my father was a weak man. A weak man with a lot of rules. But my father is dead. So now,” his right hand rises again, this time the macuahuitl is in his grip, “now we live by my rules.”  
“Don’t. Don’t hurt her,” he pleads again, “whatever you want Eduardo. Whatever you want. Just don’t hurt her.”  
————  
The sun is starting to filter in through the light curtains. Illuminating the paleness of his skin, making his freckles stand out that much more. Mickey reaches out, laying his fingers on his neck. Thumb sliding across his cheek. Fuck, he’s gorgeous.   
He doesn’t stir under the touch of Mick’s hand. Or under the feel of his gaze.   
————  
“Leave us,” he orders Bruno. Shoving Rosa back into the stout man’s body. He kneels in front of Mickey, “whatever I want Mikhailo? Whatever I want. I want blood,” he leans in suddenly, pressing his mouth hard against Mickey’s. Lips, then teeth. Sucking at his lower lip. Dragging it into his mouth and biting down hard. Harder when Mickey pulls back. Hot pain and the taste of metal. He pulls back, “I want pain,” mashing back into his lips. Rubbing his lips, then chin against the raw throbbing pain in the bite wound he just created, “I want fear,” he lifts the macuahuitl. Tracing it from Mick’s knee, the length of his thigh, stopping when the point of an obsidian spike is pressing into the pale delicate skin of his groin, “I want you Mikhailo. Mikhailo meaning who is like god. Ukrainian. Was that your mother? Or your father? Mmm, Mikhailo,” he jabs his face into Mickey’s neck, taking a long deep breath, “my celestial being.”  
————  
“Mornin’ sleepy face,” he whispers when Ian’s eyes open.   
He smiles, half hidden in his pillow before he yawns, rolling to his back and unravelling to a long stretch before rolling back to his side. Reaching for Mickey, quickly taking hold of him with both arms to drag him in close. Kissing the top of his head when he’s snuggled in, “Saturday? Let’s stay in bed all day.”  
“Wish I could Firecrotch. Gotta work at noon.”  
“Noon, huh? As far as I can tell, that means I’ve got three hours before your ass is leaving,” his hands slide down Mickey’s back, stopping on his asscheeks. Taking a nice firm grip on either one to press their pelvises together. Grinding his morning wood against Mickey, “morning would? Or morning wouldn’t?”  
When Mickey doesn’t respond right away, he releases his grip, leaning out to peer at his face, “you sleep at all last night?”  
He shrugs and Ian kisses his forehead. Re-situating on his back, taking Mick against his chest. His hand rubbing up and down his arm. Slowly, gently. He’s quiet for along time before he whispers into the top of Mickey’s head, “I love you.”  
————  
He keeps his eyes trained on Lou’s motionless form. Slumped lifelessly on the floor, unchained. As Eduardo shackles his wrists and ankles. Cranking the winches one at a time. Slowly. Drawing out the anxiety that is winding its way through Mickey’s guts. Cranking until he has no choice but to lean chest down on the table. He takes a deep breath, knowing what Eduardo wants. He’ll give it to him. He’ll give it to him for as long as he can possibly stand it if it mean’s Rosa’s safety.  
The first lash of the whip snaps near his ear. He startles, knowing it’s what Eduardo wants, tensing his body purposely, “yes Mikhailo. Yes,” as he snaps it again. This time laying down the very tip of it between Mick’s shoulder blades. Just a lick from the leather. Just a trickle leading into a creek turning into a stream becoming a river.  
————  
He leans up to look at Ian’s face for a moment. Wanting to say so much to him. Wanting to crack that eggshell shield he’s built around himself to protect his memories of that day. Crack it and let it all spill out. Piece by piece. Lash by lash. Drip by drip.  
Instead he smiles, “morning would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm truly sorry. It just felt like the stakes had to be really high. And if I was going to go for it, it should be truly gone for. Not just half-assed.


	44. Macuahuitl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: VIOLENCE AND A SERIOUS PSYCHOPATH 
> 
> Will Eduardo get what he wants, or will Mickey withstand this long enough to get himself, Lou, and Rosa out alive?

He only tapped the obsidian spikes against his soft, thin flesh. But the river of blood it released. Eduardo presses his thumb into the base of the Gringo’s spine where the first of three spikes punctured his flesh. His dick is twitching, but this man hasn’t cried out yet. He hasn’t moaned. He hasn’t begged. He hasn’t screamed. And Eduardo needs to hear him. Eduardo needs to hear his pain before he will unleash his pleasure.   
He traces the man’s alluring spine with the flat of the macuahuitl. This man. This weapon. The two combined are Eduardo’s most precious dreams come to life. Even in the farthest reaches of his imagination he’d never have placed the two together. Heaven itself couldn’t contain the vastness of Eduardo’s pleasures today.   
“Mikhailo,” he whispers, leaning his cheek down against the slick blood-soaked flesh of his back. He tilts his chin, following the man’s line of sight to the unconscious woman on the floor. A distraction. He steps away quickly, stalking over to the woman and hefting her onto his shoulder, her breath comes out sharp and pained when he lifts her. Being certain to give extra attention to her right arm. It’s growing cold, losing tone. He lifts her hand to his lips as he watches Mikhailo. Pressing it hard into his mouth, suckling at her long fingers.   
“Bruno,” he calls towards the door, “take this one to the boys. Some of them have never had a prize fighter before,” he winks at his man as he drops the woman into his waiting arms. Bruno deserves the first go at this woman, “however you wish Bruno,” reaching out to caress his bearded cheek, “my father is dead Bruno. And tonight we are celebrating.”  
He returns to his reward. Standing back to admire the artwork he’s created on the man’s back. Excitement races through his veins. Sparking every part of him to life. Life like he’s never known before.   
He stops at the winches attached to his ankle restraints first. Cranking until the man’s feet are just barely touching the tiles. Slippery and crimson. Eduardo could bathe in this moment forever. Trailing a finger up Mikhailo’s right leg, following behind it with his tongue.   
“Every inch of you Mikhailo,” he promises.  
“Please,” he hears the man whisper, “please don’t hurt her.”  
“I don’t hurt her Mikhailo. I don’t hurt you.”  
“No,” his voice is weakening but his resolve is strengthening, “no. You bring her back in here. Where I can see her. You bring her back in here. And I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll say whatever you want.”  
“I can’t bring her back in here Mikhailo. Bruno is having his turn. He earned his turn.”  
“No,” his voice barely above a whisper now, “you leave her alone now. You’ve had your fun with her. You bring her back in here. Now.”  
Eduardo takes the steps to the front of the table. Near his head. Running his hands down Mikhailo’s arms. Both of them stretched, pulled taut, “one more turn of the winch, two more turns of the winch? How many before that left shoulder snaps? Hmm, Mikhailo? How many? You’re not in a position to make demands,” reaching for his face. Tilting it back to look into his clear blue eyes. Waves of yearning pulse through Eduardo’s veins, “I don’t hurt her Mikhailo,” he tells him again, “I only give her what she’s longing for. You see, women,” stroking his jawline, “women, they don’t know what they want until a man gives it to them. Men though,” bending forward to press his lips against that tender, swollen, blood crusted lower lip. Sucking it into his mouth, “mmm, men. They know exactly what they want. You need to want this Mikhailo. You need to want me. Do you want me Mikhailo? Hmm? Do you want me to release this pain? Do you want me to fulfill your pleasures? Hmm?”  
“I want,” voice steady, eyes holding Eduardo’s, “the woman back in here. Where I can see her. Then I will want you Eduardo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you feeling as queasy as I am?   
> The next chapter will take a quick break from the violence before we wrap it up, never to be heard from again.


	45. I'll Clean It Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take a breath. 
> 
> Let's catch up with someone we've been missing for a few weeks now.

I’ll Clean It Up

It was all Ian could do to get himself to wake Mickey up for work. He had fallen asleep in Ian’s arms after their morning round, knowing he needed the sleep desperately he had lain in bed with him for two hours before it was time to get him up and out the door.   
Opening the door to the empty apartment seems particularly daunting to Ian after he walks back home. He stands in the hallway for a moment. Watching the gold 4A on the green door. He should go in and start studying. Sundays are for studying. Today is Saturday. Saturdays are for… what are Saturdays for now? They used to be for nursing Friday’s hangover until it was time to start Saturday’s drinking and partying. Club hopping and dancing.   
He sighs, reaching out a finger to trace 4A. This apartment will forever be their first home together. He likes it. Can’t really get any smaller, which in his mind only means that the next step is bigger. Bigger is something he’s willing to do, they just have to be ready for it.  
Saturdays can be for studying he decides. After he runs. He’ll go for a run in the crisp Autumn air, clear some of the fog from his brain. Then he’ll study.   
Pushing the door open he realizes immediately that something isn’t right. Reaching for the baseball bat they keep next to the coat hooks. Scanning the place doesn’t take long. Window is open. The window to the fire escape. Bathroom door is closed. Did he close it before he left? Probably not.   
Walking as quietly as he can across the hardwood, preparing to swing the bat as he nears. When he hears the shower turn on, and the curtain close, “what the fuck?” he whispers to himself. Someone broke in to use the shower? He shoves the door open and yanks the curtain back.  
She looks very unsurprised and not at all apologetic, “you ain’t gotta use the bat El Gingero.”  
Sighing relief to himself but not closing the curtain just yet. Taking note of the pink water swirling down the drain out of the corner of his eye, “um, what’s…”  
“Nothin’,” her eyes don’t leave his, “just using some hot water and I’ll be on my way. I’ll clean it up,” she mentions nonchalantly. When he doesn’t respond right away, she wonders, “you really gotta stand there and watch me shower? There ain’t even anything to steal in here.”  
He releases the curtain. Giving her privacy though he doesn’t really think she gives a shit who sees her naked. Not really leaving the bathroom, lingering in the doorway silently for a moment. Trying to gather a single coherent thought about this. He hasn’t seen any sign of her on the roof in a couple days. The leaves have all solidly turned. He knew that was the deadline, when the leaves turn. He’s been uneasy knowing that, and not being able to talk to Mick about it.   
He scans the room now. Her clothes removed and left in a pile on the floor. A blood-soaked cloth in the sink. A bag that looks like it contains medical supplies on the closed toilet lid.  
“So, um…”  
The water turns off, “towel.”  
He hands one through the opening in the curtain. Listening while she dries. Noticing now that her breath is coming out a little sharp, a little strained, “what, um…”  
“Put on your EMT face El Gingero. Gonna need a hand here.”  
“What? What happened?” he pulls the curtain back, reaching to offer her a hand over the lip of the tub.  
She swats his hand away, “not like that, Jesus. Gay Jesus,” she corrects herself with a half smirk as she steps out onto the bathroom tile. She’s keeping her right hand behind her back a little, the towel tucked around her chest, her left hand reaching for the bag off the toilet lid before she plops herself down on it, “got any idea how to do stitches?”   
“No, not really,” he admits when her eyes land on his.   
“Gonna learn,” propping her leg up on the tub. Her thigh is bleeding pretty heavily.   
He leans down to get a closer look and draws a sharp breath, “that’s a fucking bullet wound Lou.”  
“Sure is doc. Through and through. Just needs a couple stitches on either end. Nothin’ fancy. I’d do it myself but,” she reveals her right hand and Ian’s breath catches again, “kinda hard with only one hand.”  
“What the fuck?” taking her wrist gently, inspecting the damage, “dog bite?”  
“Couple of ‘em,” she smirks, “let’s get to it, shall we?”  
“But I…”  
“Step one would be washing your hands.”  
“But Lou, I…”  
“Self doubt gets people killed. You fuckin’ got this so let’s fuckin’ do it, alright?” she nods at him and fuck it if it doesn’t make him nod back. This woman’s confidence in every aspect of life that he’s witnessed is astounding.   
The supplies look like she stole them right out of an ER, “couldn’t lift any lidocaine?” he wonders as he sorts through the bag.  
“Don’t need it.”  
He believes her tone of voice and look on her face, but he doesn’t believe the statement until the whole job is done and she never flinched. Or even took an unsteady breath. Fuck, does this woman feel pain?  
His hands are shaking when he peels the rubber gloves off, tossing them in the trash on top of a pile of blood soaked gauze.   
“Not bad,” she states as he washes his hands, “now fuck off so I can clean this shit up and get on my merry way.”  
“Lou,” he sighs, “you aren’t cleaning this up. You’re going to sit on the fucking couch with your foot up and an ice pack on your hand until I tell you it’s okay to get up.”  
“Yeah,” she snorts at him, “sounds real good El Gingero. Maybe in a different fuckin’ world I’d have time for that.”  
“I’m not fucking asking,” he clarifies. Looking in her eyes and seeing the exact same exhaustion in their depth that’s been lingering in Mickey’s for about a week now, “when’s the last time your clothes were washed? You look like a goddamned bum. And when’s the last time you ate a real meal? You look like a light breeze could knock you over,” he reaches again for her right wrist, this time with the intent of cleaning the wounds.   
But when his hand closes around it, she yanks back, pulling him closer to her face, “still stands that the less you know the better, got it?”  
“Got it. Think I’d rat you out to the cops or something?”  
“No. I think the less my world crosses over into yours, the better off you are. I ain’t answerin’ any questions about this. And you ain’t tellin’ a soul - including pretty boy - that I was here today. Got it?”  
“Got it. Now give me your damn hand so I can clean it out so you don’t end up with a nasty fucking infection in it, amputating it yourself with god knows what kind of blade in some fucking alley somewhere.”  
She snickers, “meat cleaver probably do the trick. Pay some fuckin’ meth-head ten bucks to do it, wouldn’t even have to get my hand dirty.”  
“You’re impossible,” he shakes his head while she leans back against the toilet, allowing him to patch up the puncture wounds in her hand.   
She looks about to doze off when he finishes up. Good, maybe he can convince her to take a nap. Maybe she’ll even nap long enough that Mickey will be home before she leaves. She said she wasn’t staying the winter. The job was supposed to be done when the leaves turned. Whatever that was. Assuming the bullet wound is a consequence of the job, then it’s done. And she’s still breathing. So she’s probably taking off soon. He gets the impression she won’t say goodbye. But he also knows that she can’t just leave without any kind of closure. For her. And for Mickey.   
She blinks sleepily at him when he stands up. When she leans forward like she’s about to get to her feet, he takes the option away from her. Scooping her up like a child, much to her chagrin, “don’t fuckin’ carry me. The fuck you think I am, some kinda damsel in distress?”  
She’s so fucking exhausted that the fight isn’t convincing. Not for one moment. He deposits her gently on the couch, “sleep,” he orders as he tucks a blanket around her.   
“I’ll clean it up,” she insists in a whisper when he turns back towards the bathroom.  
That’s also not an option he’s going to give her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let that settle for a minute. We're going to clean up Mexico next.


	46. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm done telling you about Mexico...  
> The violence is over, this is the aftermath.

Time

It’s a strange fucking thing. Fickle yet steady. Volatile yet reliable. Playing tricks, slipping away without notice. Lasting forever and gone in the blink of an eye.  
Could have been a minute. Could have been an hour. Or a day. Or a week. A month. Could have been a lifetime in the blink of an eye.  
Right there at his fingertips but so fucking far away.  
“C’mon,” he barely hears it, “c’mon,” rushing in his ears, “please,” voice shaky, whisper soft, “please. Please,” growing in desperation. A cry of inhuman pain echoing in his ears as his body goes limp, released from the bindings. Landing on the tiles in a puddle of blood.  
“Worse before better,” she gasps. She sounds like she’s a million miles away, “open your eyes pretty boy. Please,” voice breaking, “please.”  
————  
“It fell apart,” he whispers, “at exactly the right time,” clearing his throat. Eyes rising to land on Ian’s. He’s been keeping a distance, a physical barrier between them. Knowing if Ian touches him he’ll lose the last tiny shred of control he has over himself. He’s not sure how this happened, how all of it just started falling out of his mouth at once.  
Ian met him partway home after his shift was over, hurried and hushed when he told him that Lou was at the apartment. That he’d put some stitches in her leg and she was sound asleep on the couch.  
An instant relief rolled over him like a calm ocean wave cresting on the sandbar out in front of that resort where they said their vows. He knew she wasn’t gone, she’d never leave without saying goodbye. One way or another. In the last few days he’d been unable to stifle the worry in his gut for her. Not having seen her in weeks. Not a single sign of her.  
Part of him knew the moment he laid eyes on her in the parking lot, that she’d walk out as unexpectedly as she’d walked in. Whatever debts she was paying, they weren’t her own. All along knowing she was putting herself in danger, once again to keep him safe. But he also knew if he got involved, it would only make matters worse for both of them. And also for Ian. Fuck, he couldn’t risk that. And that wasn’t the point, her reasoning for being here when he was released. It was to make sure he was safe on the outside. It was to make sure he had a place to land. A place for a fresh start in the same old city. A place for a new beginning to a story that will never end.  
When they got back to the apartment she was gone. No sign of her ever being there other than the blanket folded neatly on the couch and a note lying on top of it, ‘Go above the noise’.  
————  
Every time he thinks this woman can’t possibly get any more crazy, she gets a little more crazy. There’s one fucking tree, one real tree on the entire property. It’s a weird looking fucker. Nothing Mickey would ever climb. But there she is, sitting at the very top of it. Perched up there like some kind of weird ass bird.  
He keeps his eyes on her while he walks across the yard. With the sun starting to descend in the desert behind her, she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. He doesn’t stop until he’s at the base of the tree, looking straight up to see nothing but tree and legs.  
“Whatcha doin’ up there?”  
“S’it look like? Sittin’ in a fuckin’ tree.”  
“Alright, that’s exactly what it looks like,” a smile rising on his face. She never lets an opportunity pass her by, “so why you sittin’ in a fuckin’ tree?”  
“‘Cause it’s so fuckin’ comfortable.”  
“Oh she’s extra fuckin’ snarky today.”  
“Only because he’s extra fuckin’ observant today.”  
“Shit. Alright. I’ll leave you to it,” guess she wants to sit in a tree alone. He’ll let her.  
He’s halfway across the yard when she hollers, “I’m above the noise!”  
“What noise?” he wonders.  
“All of it! Every fucking noise that’s below me.”  
“Okay,” he calls out, then under his breath, “crazy woman.”  
“I fuckin’ heard that.”  
‘Course she did. But fuck it if he isn’t laughing to himself by the time he stops in their doorway to look back at her. Yep, she still looks like some kind of weird ass bird. And she’s definitely the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.  
————  
Up on the roof there was a box. Taped shut. Permanent marker labelled ‘Pretty Boy’.  
He still can’t open it. It’s growing dark out. He’s hungry. He’s certain Ian is too. But once the words started coming out they would’t stop. He couldn’t look at Ian the whole while. Not wanting to look up and see sympathy. Or pity.  
But now, looking across the rooftop, all he sees is a calmly spinning galaxy floating in a sea of green.  
Clearing his throat, he tries again, “all of it fell apart for them at exactly the right time for us.”  
————  
Using her left hand, her feet, and even her teeth at one point to get him out of the restraints. Using her last tiny shred of energy to release him, “take it slow love. But not too slow. We’re runnin’ out of it,” she gasps. He has no idea where she’s mustered the strength to even drag herself in here, much less do whatever she had to do to get here in the first place. But fuck, he’s glad to see her.  
“You’ve got,” she motions to the pile of clothing she’s set beside him, “maybe a thirty minute window to get to Marco,” she seems to be turning into mush in front of him. Her muscles going lax as he gains control of his own body’s processes. Her body is broken, bloody, weak. But her mind is clear, determined, focused, “you get to Marco. The first thing you do is bring him to Rocky and Martin. Eduardo was too sloppy. He got too excited, I doubt they’ve disposed of that mess yet. And the blood is clearly on his hands. It’s enough pretty boy. It’s enough without you testifying…” her voice chokes off with a painful gasp as her eyes rise to meet his, “you can walk?”  
“Yeah,” he finds his voice finally, starting to regain feeling in his extremities. Hot burning pain on his back when he maneuvers himself to sitting. Aching. Throbbing starting to spread through his body. Every inch of it.  
“Get dressed as soon as you can feel your hands,” she tells him, “I killed the guard they left outside this door. There might be one outside the main door, but I doubt it. If there is,” she slides one of her knives across the blood slicked tiles towards him, “right here,” she jabs her fingers into her ribs, right over her heart, “to the bolster.”  
His mind is reeling, head spinning as he pulls the clothing on over the open wounds in his flesh. Feeling lightheaded, foggy but crisp. Every shade of red surrounding them is bright, vivid. The floors, the walls, the door, their bodies. Every swirl, every splatter, every stream still winding down their delicate surfaces is vibrant even when he closes his eyes.  
“Where are they?” he finally wonders.  
“They found out about the shipment raid. Eduardo is stupid enough to think he still has time to reroute. And if he runs out of time, he’ll go in heavily armed, starting a fuckin’ fire-fight with a bunch of DEA and FBI agents. Innocent people will die,” her voice is getting weaker with every word, the last pink tones in her cheeks fading to a ghostly white as she slumps further into herself, “unless you get to Marco first. You tell him everything about tonight. Locations, transports, head counts. Everything. Keep enough of the secrets you’ve been gathering for the last few months, you can use them to bargain later. He has time to pass tonight’s details along his chain of command on the drive to Rocky’s. You get there, you get there fast. They have time to intercept Eduardo and his team of rabid dogs while they’re still outside of civilian range. You know the route. You know the cartel. You know the man. And the weapon,” her voice drops off with a strangled cry.  
She swallows hard when he kneels in front of her, reaching for her, but her left hand lands firmly on his chest, “don’t,” she whispers, “I can’t. You need to go. Now,” her lip trembles, “I’ll find Rosa.”  
“I’m not leaving you here,” he insists, reaching once again for her, “either of you.”  
“You have no choice love.”  
“The fuck I don’t,” but when his hand contacts her arm she can’t stifle the sharp gasp of pain.  
“You don’t,” she insists, “and you don’t have time anymore. Go,” a tear escapes her eye, leaving a pink trail through the red blood on her cheek.  
He reaches out with a shaking hand to wipe it away. Leaning his forehead tenderly against hers, taking a long breath of her scent, watching the galaxy in her blue eyes spinning dreadfully slow, barely twinkling behind the fog of agony, “I love you,” he admits against her lips, this time before she can stop him from saying it.  
“That’ll get you killed love. I’m already dying enough for the both of us. Go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it all starting to come full circle now? A little crystal in the mud of clarity? Does it seem appropriate for the emotions that night outside the Alibi to have been running so high? Keeping in mind why Lou asked Mickey to have sex with her in the first place, does it seem fair that they would need that physical closure?  
> To crystal this one up just a bit - Eduardo did not get to the final act on Mickey. Mickey did not get raped. Even in my fucked up version of Mexico, that was not about to happen!


	47. A Million Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little of Ian's reaction to hearing this story.

A Million Times

He keeps touching his nose. The way he always touches it when he’s holding back emotions, like he can convince anyone watching him that it’s just a tickle in his nose. Just a tickle causing tears to rise in his eyes, “Rosa was already dead. They probably killed her as soon as they took her out of that room,” now his thumb and forefinger meet his eyes. Rubbing slowly, intent on forcing back the rising emotions.  
Blinking hard before he looks back down at the unopened box. Deep breath, “I was in some fuckin’ hospital in Texas when I heard shit was really hitting the fan for you. Used my last bargaining chips to get Beckman. Then used some blackmail I had on a CO to get you for a cellmate.”  
His voice drops away. Hands rising to grind into his closed eyes for a long moment. Admitting, “fuck I feel so fuckin’ guilty still for leavin’ her there. Just keep tellin’ myself it would have been impossible to carry her without hurting her even worse. It would have been impossible to get to Marco on time with…” his breath catches in his throat, “fuck.”  
This whole time he’s been able to keep his emotions inside, hiding the shock and horror from his face, stifling it from rising to his eyes. But this whole time he’s been trembling. Listening as Mickey’s story poured out of him like a waterfall. Fast, heavy. Crashing on rocks. Sending splashes and mist like a thick dark cloud of pain over everything within reach.  
Ian slides down to his butt on the rooftop. Drawing his knees towards his chest, watching the rip on the left knee of his jeans. He watches it, and listens. Listens as Mickey catches his breath. Reels in some emotions. Knowing if he reaches out, if he touches him; he’ll be overwhelmed. This is not the time to force his way in, this is the time to listen. It has been from the start. It is not his pain to bear, it is not his memory to relive. Over and over. A million times from start to finish. A million times until it yellows at the edges. Like an old photograph. A million times until the colors mute. Until the shouts become whispers. Until the pain, fear, and guilt become so small they can float away on a desert breeze.  
It is not his memory to relive, but his will be the shoulder that Mickey needs. The shoulder that will be there when his right hand rises from his side. Searching for something to hold onto. Something strong, sturdy, reliable. His will be the shoulder for leaning his head on. When his head is too heavy with that memory to hold. When his head is too heavy with exhaustion, when it’s too full of ghosts. Ian’s will be the shoulder for leaning on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ian was not just a bonus of 'rolling on the cartel', seeing the first video was what really cemented it in Mickey's mind that he would set this thing into motion, already recognizing that Eduardo needed to be stopped before he had even more power. And as the show fed us, the timing had to work so that Mickey was already at Beckman when Ian was processed.


	48. A Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes there are no words strong enough for a good-bye.
> 
> (my formatting didn't translate - so the letter is the stuff between the *'s)

A Box

A deep inhale that shakes, wiping his eyes again, smearing the dampness of tears into his skin, “fuck it,” extending a knife now to slice through the tape on the box.  
Reaching immediately to run a finger across the worn, ripped paper cover of Webster’s New International Dictionary. Nothing feels the same under a fingertip as a well worn book sleeve.  
————  
He looks up when he feels her eyes on him from across the room. She’s smiling. It’s delicate, something resembling pride in her eyes before she blinks and it disappears, “you really reading a dictionary?”  
“Fuck else am I s’posed to read around here? Everything else is in fuckin’ Spanish.”  
“You could read the bible,” she smirks.  
His middle finger responds for him and she laughs, “fire and brimstone,” her eyebrow is arched when she leans over the page he’s looking at, “w? Wild whiskey woman? Whole wide world? Wide white whale?”  
“Nah. Kinda close with wild woman. But it ain’t whiskey. It’s tequila and blow. Choke holds and knock-out punches. Crazy haired and wild eyed. Long legs in short shorts. The smiles are rare but they hit harder than those KO’s do.”  
“The fuck you gettin’ at?”  
“Wife,” he grins at her.  
“Oh Jesus,” her beautiful eyes roll, “you do know that wasn’t real, right?”  
“I meant my vows. Makes it real to me,” he shrugs, “besides this Merriam Webster chick says a wife is 1 A. dialect: woman. B. :a woman acting in a specified capacity - used in combination. 2 : a female partner in marriage. So why the fuck aren’t you my wife?”  
“Well I’m pretty sure we ain’t married.”  
“Fuck we aren’t. Said some vows, exchanged some rings. Live together, work together, fight together. Sounds like a marriage to me.”  
Her eyes are twinkling, that thing that looked a lot like pride earlier rising again for a split second before it becomes wicked, “pretty sure it’s time to put your fuckin’ dictionary down and put your wife to bed then.”  
————  
Four pieces of paper tucked into the wi page. Wife. Three black belt certificates. Muay Thai, Krav Maga, and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Louise Valentine Shea.  
And a letter. Handwritten in her intricate scrawl. A strange combination with her most times crude words.  
*Pretty Boy,  
I need a safe place. I know you can be that.  
Rocky’s dictionary so you can annoy Guano with your official definitions of shit that don’t need defining. Martin’s watch. You’re the only person he ever called his son anyway. You should have it.  
Open the dau page. No explanation needed. *  
Tears spring immediately to his eyes as he finds the dau page. Daughter. Inside, a pressed dried flower. From the bouquet Rosa had picked for Mickey. His breath shakes and his palms rise to meet his eyes. Grinding hard but unable to suffocate the flow of raw pain.  
————  
They’ve been bantering back and forth, it’s musical. Rhythmic. The most the little girl has spoken. Staring at Lou with her chin propped on her hand. They sound more like they’re reciting poems to one another than conversing. Mickey would listen to this all day if they’d keep it up. When he shifts to lean back on his hands, Rosa’s warm brown eyes land on his. She smiles wide, watching him smile back before she looks at Lou. Telling her something quickly and excitedly before she gets to her feet and takes off running towards the complex with her doll tucked under her arm.  
Getting to their feet to follow, cleaning up the remains of their picnic lunch, folding the blanket and tucking it into the basket.  
He reaches out to slide his hand into hers as they start walking. She sighs heavily, “this feels so fucking domestic I think I’m going to vomit.”  
He squeezes her hand playfully, “kid wanted a picnic. Kid wants a picnic, kid’ll get a picnic. You ever been on one?”  
“No. Unless you count eating out of dumpster behind a Denny’s.”  
Fuck if he’ll acknowledge that one, “think it’s only domestic when both parents can understand the kid. What’d she say before she took off?”  
Her head turns, eyes landing on his, appraising him silently for a moment, “she said your eyes are how she imagines the sea to look,” shrugging as her focus turns forward to watch the little girl, “she’s right.”  
————  
*Last page I want you to open is ri. Then this cheesy fuckin’ scavenger hunt will be over.*  
Ring. The braided vines that served as wedding rings. He half smiles, rolling them around in his hand. Remembering standing on that dock, her hand grasped in his, sliding the green vine over her knuckle with a tender smile.  
*Guess that means I should get to it. I suppose there are so many things I should say. But fuck it if I can find the words anyway. After all the shit we’ve been through I thought I’d have the pussy to say goodbye to your pretty fuckin’ face. But I don’t. Maybe I shouldn’t have to. Maybe I’ll find you again someday. Maybe not.  
There’s $50,000 in the bag. Your remainder of the fight money. I know the only reason you accepted the tuition being paid and the rent being paid is ‘cause you thought I was spending your portion. I wasn’t. I knew you’d only accept it if I gave you no other option. So now you have no other option. And while you’re accepting that, you should also accept the fact that sometimes people love you and want you to just fuckin’ succeed. So fuckin’ do it. You’ve got a place to live, a sweet job, you’ll have a degree, and you’ve got a guy who loves you. Got no reason not to succeed now. Just stay out of fuckin’ trouble and you’ll be good. Fuck it, you’ll be happy. Happy, maybe that’ll be enough for your fairytale ending.  
Tell El Gingero to quit wasting his time on whatever dumbass certificate he’s going to school for now. He should be going to nursing school. He’d be fuckin’ great at it.  
I guess I was wrong when I told you materials can be replaced. Friends can be replaced. Only thing that can’t is life. I guess I just never had a friend that couldn’t be replaced before I met you. Yeah, we lost some fuckin’ life. And we’re still fuckin’ breathin’, must be a good reason for it.  
I guess I meant my fuckin’ vows too. But I mean it now when I say it’s time for the letting go.  
You’ve got Chicago pretty boy. I’ve got nowhere. Chicago to you is a guano ginger boy with hypnotic eyes and a pretty smile. A silly laugh and a comforting presence. Someone who makes your heart beat in your ears, your hands sweat, and your mind calm.  
You might want to put a ring on his finger. Do it before some dipship homophobic pieces of shit in this country’s superior political system decide it ain’t legal anymore to love whoever the fuck you wanna love.  
I’ve got nowhere. Nowhere for me is doing whatever the fuck I want, whenever the fuck I want for whatever the fuck reason I want. And maybe that’s all I need. I ain’t livin’ in a fairytale and I never will. Among other stupid shit expected from chicks in fairytales, it would mean I was a helpless little testicle in a dress. Ain’t my style.  
So maybe nowhere is all I need. Nowhere sounds pretty fuckin’ okay to me.  
And maybe now we can choose to remember each other on a sunny day jumping off a cliff. Not that other shit. Maybe we can remember smiles and the company of your family. I’ll think of you sometimes when I’m above the noise. But it won’t hurt anymore. And that’s pretty fuckin’ okay with me too.  
Alright pretty boy, dry those fuckin’ beautiful ocean eyes. Take a fuckin’ breath and hug your guano ginger boy. He’s all in. He’s all in for this shit just like you’re all in for him no matter what shit he throws your way. And as long as you’re both all in, then might as well make it worth it.  
Now I ain’t gonna end this with some proclamation of love or some shit. I ain’t lookin’ to get myself killed, I already died for you once. I’ll never fuckin’ regret that.  
You’re the good shit pretty boy,  
Lou  
PS I stole your sweater. It’s too beat up for you to wear in public now that you’re a contributing member of society.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose those words will have to suffice.


	49. Vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So what were these vows that they both meant when they said them?

Vows

His hands are shaking when he passes the letter over to Ian. He has tears streaming down his face but a lighthearted smile on his lips. Turning to walk away, standing with his back turned on the other side of the roof. His hands keep rising to wipe at his cheeks but Ian gives him the space to be alone.   
Handing him the letter was permission to read it. By the time he’s done he’s choking on his own tangled emotions and he barely knew the woman. Taking the steps over to Mickey, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Immediately Mickey turns, burying himself in Ian’s chest.   
He holds tightly, but not too tight. Allowing him the space to wipe at his tears that are still falling though he’d deny it. No speaking. This is the time for silence. This is the part that Ian always has a hard time with. But he’s learning. Understanding that sometimes silence is the best support he can offer. Throughout their lives together he’s pushed Mickey into words that he didn’t want to say. Those words that Ian wanted to hear. But they never truly felt real until after Mickey was willing to admit them to himself first.   
Tilting his face to take a deep breath of the top of Mickey’s head. As much as Ian doesn’t want to admit it, he’s going to miss her a little. And as much as Ian would never admit that someone else could be in Mickey’s heart, she is. She always will be. It’s different. Like he said from the start. It’ll always be different. He never thought he’d see the day when someone, a woman especially, could fulfill Mickey’s needs; but what the hell, maybe it’s what he needed all along. Someone who just fucking loves him, no questions asked, no judgments passed, no reassurance needed. A constant, complicated, and unconditional love. A friendship strong enough to sacrifice for one another in the most painful way. Two people that fate brought together in a time when they both needed the other in order to survive. Someone had to love Mickey when Ian couldn’t. And she did a pretty fine fucking job of it.  
Sure, things would have been different if Ian had just crossed that damn border with him in the first place. But would they have this now? Would they be standing on a rooftop in the Southside holding each other as if there’s nothing else in this universe? Only them and the dying light of day. The slow steady beating pattern of their hearts. The gentle calm rhythm of their breathing. Every time Ian inhales the scent of Mickey fills his head, until he’s swimming in the man that he’s holding in his arms.   
Finally wondering, “what’d you say?”  
“Didn’t say shit,” mumbled against his chest before he tilts his head back to look up at Ian.   
His eyes are glossy, cheeks pink. Wrecked with tearstains, but Ian thinks he’s gorgeous regardless, “I mean your vows, what’d you say for your vows?” reaching out to hold Mick’s face in his hands as he leans in to press a tender kiss against his forehead.  
Wiping his cheeks for the final time tonight with his hands, “I told her I love the way she kicks my ass and I hope she keeps doing it. And she said ‘you’re too pretty to get rid of, guess I’ll hang on to you’,” a gentle laugh passing his lips at the memory.  
“Exchanged rings and kissed the bride?”  
“Fuck no. Exchanged braided vines and she shoved me off the dock.”  
“Sounds about right,” his hands fall down the length of Mickey’s back, coming to rest over his clothing where those weird scars are that Ian now knows are the result of an ancient Aztec weapon in the hands of a psychopath. Taking a deep breath, “and she’s your wife because she’s your female partner. In so many ways even if it’s not a piece of paper.”  
A slow nod of his head from where it’s tucked under Ian’s chin, “always,” he listens to him breathing for a moment. Soft, even, calm; before, “alright I gotta piss, I’m fuckin’ starvin’, you need your evening meds, and we gotta find a place to hide a bunch of fuckin’ money.”  
“Alright,” he agrees, but doesn’t let him go without kissing the top of his head and squeezing him tight to his chest for another moment.


	50. We Got Shit To Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pene eating pit bull and an ass-kicking woman.

We Got Shit To Do

She exhales a breath of weed up towards the dim yellow glow of the streetlamp. Watching as it swirls above her head. Eyes finding the guano ginger boy leaning back against the apartment building. Standing on the fire escape with his face buried in his hands. At least he held himself together in front of pretty boy. Now he’s been standing on the fire escape sobbin’ like a bitch for about five minutes.   
She takes another toke, leaning her shoulder against the lamppost. Crossing her ankles and waiting.   
They’ll be alright. They’re both standin’ on their own two legs now. And they’ve got the resources and tools to keep it that way.  
Pinching the lit tip of the joint, tucking it behind her ear. Tugging the tan sweater sleeves down to cover her palms. The sleeves are worn at the wrists, they must have been too long for pretty boy. The sweater is so engrained with his scent she’s certain it will take years to wear off. Yanking the zipper up tight to the neck and crossing her arms over her chest. It ain’t shorts weather anymore. Means it’s time to move on.   
A snort coming from the dumpster behind her, she calls out, “ain’t gonna find any pene in there Charlize. Told ya that already. Besides, dumpster pene is for sluts and psychopaths. You ain’t neither.”  
In six months when a man named Roberto shanks a homophobic Neo-Nazi to death in prison, Mickey will receive the deed to the Milkovich house of horrors. Maybe they’ll fix it up and move in. Live the rest of their lives in the old neighborhood with the old life still nippin’ at their heals. Maybe they’ll sell it to the yuppy pricks who are filling up their shithole city and move along to a different part of town. Or maybe they’ll turn it into a shelter for displaced and discarded LGBTQ teens. That’ll keep the old man rollin’ in his grave for decades.   
It’s convenient how much Roberto hates Neo-Nazis. Maybe if they’d spoken to one another in the joint, they’d have found out that the cunt who stole Berto’s dog the night he got busted for dealing heroin was the same cunt who lured Terry into a bar fight that broke his parole for the umpteenth time and landed him back in the slammer. Fuckin’ bottom-feeders. Good riddance.   
Sometimes the big fish eat the little fish. And sometimes the little fish just keep on swimming.   
Her gaze rises once again to the fire escape. He’s leaning against the rail now. Hands gripped tight to the iron. The light from their apartment spilling out behind him, making it impossible to see his face. He’s got his shit together. And it’s gonna stay that way. He knows now that his disorder is manageable and it doesn’t make him someone he’s not. It makes him exactly who he is and he has a man who loves him for just that.   
“Fuck it,” she sighs, removing the joint from behind her ear. Sparking the lighter once again. Her eyes close as she inhales the sweet freedom of doing whatever the fuck she wants. Almost. She’s got some business to take care of in California first. A guy named Billy who is about to pay for his past. Then freedom.   
This time when the exhale dissipates skyward she feels his eyes on her. Looking up to see his right hand raised in a wave. She cocks her head at him, “alright guano, think you got it from here,” telling the distance between them, “yeah you got it from here,” smiling to herself as she turns on her heal, whistling, “yo Charlize, we got shit to do.”  
She’ll never change her mind about kissing. Kissing is dangerous. If it gets a person a shitty apartment in the Southside, a normal job, and a lifetime of waking up next to the same person; then it’s dangerous as fuck. And it sure ain’t for her.   
There will always be sharks in the sea. They’re necessary. And as long as there are sharks in the sea, a few parasites will be around to make sure the little fish get to keep on swimming.   
But this parasite is gettin’ the fuck out of Chicago before the snow flies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sound appropriate for our parting shot of Lou?
> 
> Terry getting shanked to death in prison - even the show's version of Terry deserved the hell out of that. You're welcome.


	51. Guardian Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some brief thoughts from Ian.

Guardian Angels

“Oh fuck,” he sighs, breath shaking as he wipes the stream of tears off his cheeks. He can’t stop picturing Mickey being bound and whipped. The fear and pain he must have felt. Alone if not for Lou. Taking down a cartel would never be an easy thing. Fuck, he made it sound so nonchalant. Like it was just a day in the park, ‘I rolled on the cartel I was working for’. Rolled on them, it would have been more appropriate to say he rolled over them with a fucking bulldozer. Taking down Eduardo with enough murder charges that’ll have him behind bars for life. Trickling on down the line with drug trafficking and human trafficking. Lou said there are still pieces floating around in the desert but none powerful enough to gain solid footing.   
Whatever connections she had here in Chicago, those were what she used to buy protection for them behind bars. Her currency may have been more than just paper money, he was certain of that. He’s also certain that she is some kind of seriously talented puppet master. He was right about that. And Mandy was correct in saying she’s pulling all the right strings.   
Across the street under the dim glow of a streetlamp a lighter sparks. Catching his attention, clinging to the figure bathed in the halo of yellow light. He watches as she inhales, leaned against the lamppost looking like she hasn’t a care in the world.   
A hard woman in a hard world. He takes a deep breath when her face tilts towards him. His right hand rises, a wave. A wave will have to suffice. Even if they did have the space to speak, there would be no words that would be enough.   
Fuck. He was wrong. She’s not a puppet master. She’s a guardian angel. And maybe we should all be so lucky as to have a pot-smoking, ass-kicking, dirty-mouthed, ain’t-afraid-of-shit earthbound goddess watching over us. Clad in combat boots covered in DNA and an old worn-out sweater belonging to maybe the only person she’s ever let her guard down for.   
She jerks a nod in his direction, turning quickly to stalk down the sidewalk. A pit bull following close to her heal. He shakes his head to himself. A pene eating pit bull and a woman who isn’t afraid to feed it to her. A combination made in… wherever the fuck a combination like that would be made. Hell, he supposes if you’re the one who crosses them. But Heaven if you’re the one in need of a guardian angel.  
She’s well out of sight before he blinks away the fog in his eyes. Hand stuffed in his pocket, fingering the gunmetal tungsten carbide ring with an ocean blue inlay. Tonight’s not the night. Soon. He’s had the ring in his pocket for two weeks now. Trying to think of the best way to ask. Not too cheesy, but something nice. Memorable. Though if he brings Mickey out to dinner he’ll probably moo at the plate again. It’s getting kind of cold to stargaze on the ball field. He definitely doesn’t want to wait until warm weather.   
He knows he’ll wait now, Mickey will wait now. They’ll belong only to each other for the rest of their lives. Maybe the way it’s always been on the inside. Now it’s certain, now without the outside influences that drove them apart in the past. Any outside influences left can fuck off. They’ll build their relationship strong enough to withstand any fucking storm that could possibly whirl their way. The storms that always threatened them the most were the ones they held on the inside. They’ve both reeled those in, mastered their own temperaments and personalities. Having experiences outside of one another behind them, only making them stronger now than they’ve ever been. Certain, without a doubt, now and for the rest of their lives that they are meant for one another. They know how to bring out the best and unfortunately the worst in each other. But love through the full spectrum. In a way now that is safe and sturdy. Reliable, healthy. Exactly the things they needed from one another but never before could achieve.   
From the moment they started rebuilding this relationship, starting a new foundation of trust and openness, Ian hasn’t so much as looked at another guy. Knowing fully that what he has in Mickey is irreplaceable. Every single aspect of it. Maybe someday when he asks Mick to tell him about Mexico, it will be sandals and tequila. Because maybe someday they’ll find his guardian angel sitting on a beach smoking a joint, relaxing in the sun. Tenth anniversary maybe, by then the raw emotions of the things they lived through together will have faded, by then maybe they can have the friendship with one another they truly deserve.   
Ian can’t help but to smile. This is certainly not how he pictured his life when he dreamed of Westpoint and a military career. But shit happens. Guess it leaves two choices: scrape that shit off your shoe and keep moving, or track it along with you for the rest of your life.   
Ian has chosen to scrape. And he’s kinda proud of himself for that.   
“Yo firecrotch,” startles Ian, he was so quiet behind him in the apartment that Ian was starting to think he had gone to bed, “you gonna stand out there all night, or you gonna eat your fuckin’ dinner and get on me so I can get some fuckin’ sleep? Long fuckin’ day tomorrow. Starting that community youth outreach program at the gym. Then Yev’s gonna be here in the afternoon. Ain’t it your turn to clean this dump? Looks like a tornado touched down in the kitchen.”  
“Yeah sure Mick. A tornado with dark hair and blue eyes.”  
“Oh shit,” he’s standing at the counter sizing up the amount of mess on it when Ian returns to the apartment, shrugging, “I’ll take care of it in the morning. Here,” shoving a plate at him, a glass of water, and his pill organizer, “hurry up, I’m…” before he can finish his sentence Ian leans in. Pressing a slow, tender kiss against his pretty mouth. Lingering with his forehead leaned down into Mick’s, hands on his lower back holding him close, taking a quiet moment to appreciate the feel of his body, gentle breathing between them. In and out. In and out. Slow and even. Calm and balanced. The space between them is minuscule. Exactly the way Ian plans to keep it for the rest of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sweater is supposed to the one Mickey was always wearing - including the day he kicked Ian in the face - so I don't think Ian will be sad to see it go. 
> 
> I'd rather see Ian propose to Mickey. I think that particular ball should be in his court.


	52. Partner, Lover, Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small time jump here.

Partner, Lover, Family

Mickey blinks, reaching out to slap the alarm off quickly before it wakes Ian. Settling back into his husband for a few more moments this morning. Taking that last bit of calm before this hectic day comes into full swing. Encircled in his long arms, hands entwined together. They’ve been wearing wedding bands for a year today. One full year. Not a day of it has gone by without taking some time for one another. Even on their busiest days they manage to find a quiet moment, a private look, hands tangled together at their sides.   
It’s their one year wedding anniversary but they don’t have time to celebrate that now. Ian’s officially a licensed practical nurse today. They’ll have years, decades to celebrate their marriage. Their entire fucking lives. And really, anybody can make it a year. They’ll celebrate when they make it fifty, when they make it sixty and they’re both old and crusty. When they’re too old to see each other clearly, or hear each other clearly. But they’ll still feel each other as clearly as the first time they touched.   
Ian may have known he loved Mickey the first time they hooked up. But for Mick it was different. It was a slow, spreading ache that he didn’t recognize for a long time. It was the pain of hiding his feelings for so many years, it was so hard to admit that he’d allowed Ian under his skin. Creeping into the one crack in the armor he’d built around his heart. Prying his way in with a tire iron, a goofy laugh, an innocent smile, a ridiculously optimistic outlook on life, and the freedom to say whatever he fuckin’ felt whenever he fuckin’ wanted. He snuck his way in and he stayed there until he was the only beat of Mickey’s heart. He never ceased to be there, through every single thing they experienced together and apart.   
Mickey still thinks of Lou often. He doesn’t worry about her, he knows she’s got herself handled. There’s a void left in his soul without her, just like the loss of any great friendship. And maybe it’s not lost. Maybe she’s right, someday she’ll find him. Someday when they have the space to rebuild a partnership the way they both deserve. He’ll never stop loving her, and it will always be different from the way he loves Ian. It always was. His Mexico wife. Love born of respect, a mutual appreciation for fighting, drinking, and cursing; and maybe a little fear. Without her, he’d have drowned in Mexico. He likes to think wherever she is, whatever she’s doing that she’s happy.   
Ian’s breathing has started shifting to wake breathing. His next move will be to pull Mickey’s back as close to his chest as possible. Then he’ll take a deep breath of his neck and squeeze his hand.   
“Mornin’ sleepy face,” lifting Ian’s hand to his lips, “or nurse sleepy face, I should say.”  
“Nurse sleepy face,” he sighs, burying his face in Mickey’s hair, locking his left hand tight in Mickey’s and resting them against his chest. Over the steady beat of his heart. That heart that has been broken, beaten, bruised, and ripped to shreds. That heart that is so fuckin’ full of love it’s bound to burst out of his chest.   
After the graduation ceremony they’ve got lunch with Ian’s family. Then they’ll head down to the Southside for a few hours, taking a group of kids from the Milkovich House of Hope (because who the fuck reads labels anyway), on an outing to the lake. A night of camping, the day tomorrow will be spent kayaking, paddle boarding, and swimming. Hanging out with a bunch of kids who maybe need nothing more than just someone who silently understands. The more time Mickey spends with these kids, the more he thinks his experiences were not for naught. If he can help even one other person, just one kid who is afraid and confused, hurt and alone; to feel safe inside their own skin, then the bruises, broken bones, and scars from his childhood were worth it.   
The community youth outreach program at the gym grew so much they had to add two more nights on the schedule. Jordan and Mick have started talking about opening a second location, one that Mickey can manage on his own. He’s taken on a lot of the responsibilities and the management aspect of the gym already, he feels pretty confident he could handle his own place. With a little help of course, and the strong support he has from his spouse.   
When Ian once again squeezes their hands together at Mick’s chest, the metal of their wedding bands clink together. The inlay on Mick’s is ocean blue. The inlay on Ian’s is fire red. They talked about green to match his eyes, but Mickey decided on red. Because there is no material on the planet that can imitate the galaxy he sees when he looks in Ian’s eyes.   
Rolling in his husband’s arms now to look at his stars. They don’t need a different universe anymore. They live on that fifth star in the galaxy spinning lazily on a green iris. Maybe they always have.   
But there has never and will never be a single place in this universe where it would end any other way. Staring into the stars that belong only to him. That stars that shine only from his husband.   
Partner.  
Lover.  
Family.

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snip, snap, snout this tale is told about. 
> 
> The next chapter isn't a chapter. It's some discussion, maybe further crystals in the mud, an alternate ending, and a flash forward.
> 
> The few of you who have made it this far - thank you so much for joining me!


	53. Notes, alternate ending, flash forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little further detail to some choices I made. An alternate ending that appeared in my mind a few times throughout the writing process. And fifteen years later...

Notes, discussions, an alternate ending, and a flash forward

Well, what do we think? Mickey as an MMA gym owner. Ian as an LPN. Married and happy, having rebuilt their relationship for the final time off trust, openness, and love. Does it seem like the safe place they’ve always needed? Enough stability to sustain them for life?

What about Lou? Did she take care of business in California? Or did the life she leads catch up with her? Did she head back to Mexico to take over the remaining pieces of cartel? Or did she hang up her combat boots and retire from her hit-woman/vigilante/mercenary ways? Is she living like fuckin’ royalty at a resort in the Virgin Islands? Or is she still buying freedom for victims of sharks? Did she take over Eduardo’s mansion and open it as an orphanage/shelter for refugees?

I wrote this for purely selfish reasons. I had zero intention of sharing it, I find sharing my work to be absolutely terrifying. In fact, I’ve never done it. I’ve been writing poetry and fiction for over half my life, but have never had the pussy to let anyone else see it. Those of you who have offered feedback, it has meant the world to me. Those of you who have trusted me to the end, I truly appreciate your company. 

I felt the urge to write this when they gave us a prison scene to wrap up the entirety of a beautiful and complicated relationship. As if two gay men in general population in prison could have anything resembling happiness behind bars without a million other pieces having to fall into place. There were way too many gaps left in how Mickey got there, and how he could have rolled on a cartel and still be breathing. I’m not claiming to know a lot about cartels, but to me it felt like it had to be something more than just the off chance that he may end up in prison in Chicago. I also thought he’d probably end up in witness protection if he had to testify. So to me that translated to something more than drug trafficking and taking down a few lower level members. It would have to mean completely dismantling the cartel up to the head of it with something absolutely undeniable - such as murder. And murder in which there was no denying Eduardo’s hand.

I had written a bisexual man in one of my fictions awhile back, and when I started watching Shameless this past summer, I saw a lot of similarities in him and Mickey. Like I stated in notes, if I had taken this up during season 4/5, I probably would not have introduced a bisexual storyline. It was seducing a female prison guard (which really there was no reason for the writers to make her female) that cemented it in my head as something that could easily be explored. So I hate to sound like a child by saying they started it - but they started it, whether we liked it or not. I also had mentioned that we never saw Mickey enjoying sex with anyone who wasn’t Ian. So the possibility was there and why not explore it in a loving environment?

I chose to go female with Lou for a lot of reasons. She was someone who could have a lot of similarities with Mickey, enough so that a strong friendship could root quickly and eventually love could blossom. But enough differences to pique his interest. They could spend hours peeling back each other’s layers, and understand each other in a way that maybe no one else could at that time in both of their lives. She could influence Mickey in ways that could help rebuild his confidence in himself and invest in his future after his heart was ripped to shreds standing on that border. I think it’s fair to say that an experience like that would leave him questioning the bulk of his life’s choices. So she finds him all vulnerable, naked and tear-stained, standing in the desert and she probably sees some little pieces of herself in him. A soft heart under a rock hard exterior. They were comfortable bearing their souls to one another because of similar childhood experiences and the feeling that all they could rely on were themselves. And then they came to rely on each other.

I also wanted Mickey to have a love interest that was far removed from Ian. If his only experiences at love were his mother, his sister, and Ian, (possibly Yevgeny); then it was time for something different. Since Lou is not much of one for labels, she didn’t read him as a criminal, a thug, a pimp, etc… all the things attached to him in the Southside. By being open for every single layer of him, she gave him the space to grow and accept every single layer of himself as well. A true friendship. And in turn, Mickey gave her the acceptance and respect that she’s probably never had from a man. While it’s safe to say that she probably fell harder for him that he did for her, she recognized immediately that he was still in love with Ian. So she made the ultimate sacrifice as far as her happiness was concerned and set the ball rolling on getting him back to Chicago. 

Aside from the two of them needing closure when Mickey got out of prison, she would have felt guilt for pushing him towards the cartel and then not being able to protect him from Eduardo. So she would have felt a need to cushion his life outside of prison. To make sure he was safe and standing on his own two feet before she could leave. 

I left her a little mysterious because ‘she is the ocean at dawn, hmm? Vastness. Depth. Sparkling on the surface. Secrets and mysteries in her dark places. No one really knows where she ends and where she begins.’ We know she began with her father, a drug addict that used her as currency - which would have given her some connections within the US, and also an understanding of how things worked in the web of power between criminals, gangs, so on and so forth. She spoke to Mickey of being who they wanted her to be - ‘I learned how to be who they wanted me to be when I was young. However that meant. And whoever it was.’ She learned how to play the game, how to be a chameleon, how to go by unnoticed. An innocent face, a seemingly harmless person, when all along she was learning how the power game worked. And then in Mexico she was taken in by the daughter of a cartel leader. A daughter that he had groomed to take over before she had discovered his little secret. I think it’s safe to assume that Lou learned a lot from Rocky. 

‘Connections inside the joint, connections outside the joint; get a man a leg up in this world.’ Life according to Mickey. Certainly he had some connections of his own from previous time spent behind bars. With the added connection of Lou being on the outside and knowing how to work the system with the right amount of cash and the right amount of services offered. 

I could absolutely go on forever dissecting Mickey and Ian - but I won’t. We all watched the show and we all loved them through their disfunction, otherwise we wouldn’t be here still thinking about them and longing for something better than what they were given. I chose the ball field as their spot although the bleachers were proclaimed by the show to be it. The thing about the bleachers is - the first time they were back there all I remember is Ian with his dick in some dude’s ass, then literally sixty seconds later putting it in Mickey’s. So I don’t really like that spot. I prefer the ball field. The first time they were back there was when it really showed that there was more at play than just two boys hooking up. Ian talking about his dreams and Mickey listening while also recognizing that he was ‘fucked for life’. That they were on completely different trajectories and it’d be best for Ian’s future if he kept his distance. And Ian showing he cared for Mickey by wanting him to go back to school and getting him a job. He was going to try his hardest to pull Mickey out of being fucked for life. The second time it felt like Ian proving to Mickey that they were still just Ian and Mickey underneath the mess that they had become. So I chose the ball field for their first real date to come to an end. 

On that note - I had an urge a couple of times to write towards this ending:  
————  
Mickey sighs deeply, leaning his head back against his husband’s chest. Reeling in the emotions still running rampant in his mind, letting his breathing calm, his heart beat slow. Ian’s arms wrap tight around his chest, sliding his fingers between his. Leaning his face into the back of Mickey’s head to take a deep breath.   
Of course they’d end up here. On the ball field. On their wedding night. Getting a moment alone, away from the ridiculousness that the Gallaghers have made out of their reception.   
“First fuck as a married couple,” Ian sighs, his breath warm as it gets caught under the collar of Mickey’s shirt, making its way slowly down his spine.   
Wrapped in his arms, settled between his long legs. Rumpled dress shirts, half buttoned, bow ties destroyed, belts somewhere in the dugout. Mickey can’t remember if he buttoned his pants. Fuck it.   
“You really think you were going to get a moment alone tonight?” her voice brings a smile to his face.  
“Don’t climb that fence,” Ian warns.  
But she’s already leaping down into the dugout, “thanks doc, but climbing a fence ain’t gonna put me into early labor,” combat boots and a blue dress, clinging to a seven month bump, “get it out of your systems for a bit?” she wonders as she nears.   
They both instinctively open their legs to make room for her between Mick’s. She plops down with a grunt, immediately pulling a joint out of her bra.  
“You aren’t smoking that,” Ian reminds her.  
“No. I ain’t. One of you is. And I’m gonna sit here and breathe the secondhand smoke enough to calm the nausea.”  
“Shouldn’t still be nauseous.”  
“Yeah well, tell that to the little shit in there doing Krav Maga to my intestines. And whoever brought that fuckin’ wedding cake.”  
“I’ll smoke it,” Mickey pipes up, easily accepting the wedding gift from her long fingers as she passes it back.   
Ian’s chest rumbles when he clears his throat. Mickey can feel it against his shoulders, handing the joint to his husband, reminding, “one puff. That’s all.”  
“Yep,” he agrees. Pressing his lips against Mickey’s neck as he hands it back.   
“Better?” he wonders after a few exhales of pungent smoke over Lou’s shoulder.  
“Mmm hmm,” lazily replying, her head finding a comfortable place to rest against Mick’s chest.   
Since she sat down, their hands have found their way to her belly. Ian’s first. Finding that elbow that keeps being thrown in forceful jabs against her abdomen. Then Mickey’s, sliding over the full surface of the restless creature, meeting Ian’s fingertips and sliding between. Finally Lou’s, reaching under her skirt to cut the elastic on the waistband of whatever the fuck kind of underwear trap is necessary for this kind of get-up. A contented sigh parting her lips as her fingers drum over the baby’s butt before it rolls and Mickey catches her hand with his free one.   
To an outsider this might be fucked up. A man and his husband. A man and his wife. But fuck outsiders. They can judge and make whatever stupid claims they have about how love can’t work that way. It’s impossible to love two people differently and equally. That he’s being selfish by not letting one of them go. Truth is, Mickey has never loved until the two times he loved too fucking hard, fell too fucking fast; and now he has no idea how to stop. And he ain’t forcing either one of them to stay. They chose this path, unconventional as it is, they chose it together. All three of them. Soon to be four.   
And fuck it if this isn’t the most incredible place Mickey has ever been. Wrapped in Ian’s warmth, Lou at his chest, and their baby under their hands. They’ll make this work. They’ll be the strong family unit that none of the three of them had growing up. This baby will have two dads and a mom. Three people who love her, and each other, unconditionally.   
Mickey earned his cake, and what the fuck’s the point of cake if no one’s gonna eat it?  
“Feels like our little princess is taking a rest,” the smile is evident in Ian’s voice.  
“Call her a fuckin’ princess again…”  
“I know, I know. Charlize will have my testicles.”  
“We decide on a name yet?” Mickey wonders.  
“All I know is she ain’t havin’ any of our last names. She ain’t carryin’ our piece of shit fathers around in her name. Well, maybe Gallagher ain’t that bad. The least of the three evils.”  
Ian laughs, “her first word will end up being fuck.”  
“Long as it ain’t Mama, then I don’t give a shit what it is. She learns Dada real fuckin’ quick. Then she’ll be callin’ for you guys when she’s got a dirty diaper.”  
“Far as I’m concerned you won’t need to do diaper duty. You put the food in, we’ll take it out.”  
“Deal El Gingero. I’ll hold ya to it.”  
“Fuck, I didn’t agree to that,” Mickey cuts in.  
“Not yet,” Ian leans in, kissing his neck in exactly the spot he knows will make Mickey agree to anything. Anytime. Anywhere, “as soon as you see our little trash-talking, bitch slappin’ piece of Southside trash, you’ll do anything for her.”  
“Fuck the Southside,” Lou sighs.  
“Fuck Mexico,” Ian retorts.   
Mickey laughs, taking a breath, trying to ingest this moment, take it with him for the rest of his life, “fuck the world,” the only part of it that matters anyway is right here.  
————  
I had an urge to do that a couple times, but felt it would take away a lot of growth possibilities. Could have been fun to explore that dynamic and picturing the three of them as a parenting unit could be entertaining. It also would have fallen more in line with the show’s tendency toward shamelessness in relationships. But since the whole reason I wanted to write this was to give them a better ending, a stronger relationship, something permanent and unyielding - then that end would not have satisfied. Even if it meant they got to be dads together. I have my doubts that two ex-cons (especially attempted murder) could make their way through the adoption process. And I have no desire to see how the show’s writers would remedy that one. 

The night outside the Alibi. I knew I would lose most readers with this, so if you sorted through to the end with me - thank you again, you probably already understand my reasoning for doing this on multiple levels. First off, I felt as though Mickey and Lou (Lou especially) deserved the physical closure. Second off, I wanted to put Mickey and Ian in a situation that would force maturity. On both of them, but mostly Ian. Mickey was mature enough to tell Ian immediately that it happened. I left this conversation out for a lot of reasons, the biggest being that it would have given away too much Mexico plot before I was ready to reveal it. This was a turning point for Ian. He could have freaked out, taken off, gone off his meds, whatever shit they probably would have had him do in the show… I chose to make him stay and deal with it. He needed to understand at that point in their relationship that it was time to make good on his half, it was time to listen instead of push, it was time to accept instead of deny, it was time to slow down and think it through. We’ve seen them always jump right back into fucking and fighting instead of talking through their issues, I wanted them to slow down and rebuild a real foundation. And whether he liked it or not, he would have to accept that Lou’s influence and Mexico’s influence on Mickey was part of that foundation. 

Lou was extremely fun to write. I had a half-hatched, no maybe quarter-hatched, no - the egg was just laid on the nest plan to cross her over into Animal Kingdom (if you don’t watch it - do. It will restore any lost faith you have in John Wells productions). But there were too many things that wouldn’t add up. First being the timeline since this fic is set after Mickey and Ian get out of prison. And I don’t think the Animal Kingdom Billy could be nearly as horrific as Lou’s father Billy. And without a half-sibling relationship she wouldn’t get the time of day with the Cody’s. 

I’ve also thought about writing a scenario where Ian makes it for the border instead of ending up in prison. Lou could also be a part of this - and would probably satisfy more readers because I doubt I’d run with the romance between her and Mickey in that one. The romance was mostly the icing on the cake for why they would withstand so much for one another when it came to dealing with the cartel and the fallout. 

Alright, I think I’m wrapping up here - finally. Remember there are holes left in fiction for the reader’s imagination to take over. But if you’ve found anything a little too murky still, feel free to speak up. If you want a rewrite of anything, I’d be willing to explore some possibilities. Questions, comments, concerns - have at it. If you loved it, feel free to share with any of your open-minded friends who you think would also love it. If you hated it - feel free to print off the page with the night outside the Alibi and rip it to shreds, spit on it, and light it on fire. In the end, if I made you feel things, then I did my job right. 

Thank you so much for sharing this story with me!

And….

————  
Fifteen years later:

Mickey’s U-UP fingers drumming away on the armrest between them has finally become too much for Ian to handle. Laying his hand down over top of his husband’s, feeling immediately the coolness of the metal band he’s been wearing for fifteen years against his overheated flesh. He takes a deep breath and musters a smile. Neither of them have ever been on an airplane before. But this was the time, fifteen years and a lot of memories behind them, it was time for a honeymoon. If they weren’t certain of it, then the envelope they received in the mail last week containing tickets and a note that simply said - It’s fuckin’ time - cemented the idea.   
Fuck, his goddamn fingers are still drumming, this time taking Ian’s along for the ride, “Jesus Mick, would you just…”  
His head turns quickly, eyes darting towards Ian. He’s clearly holding his breath. The only thing Ian can think to do is lean in. Pressing into his lips, eagerly jabbing his tongue against Mickey’s closed mouth until he opens it. Taking a deep inhale before enveloping Ian’s mouth with his own. It lasts, just long enough that in gasping for breath, they’ve both evened out, remembered how to inhale with each other. How to exhale with their foreheads leaned together.   
“Good?” Ian whispers.  
“Good,” Mickey responds gruffly, a clear indicator that he’s not going to acknowledge his concern for flying. He won’t talk about how twisted his guts are and how he feels as though the air is too thick in here, the seats are too cramped, he has no clear exit, and he couldn’t just get up and leave if the urge struck him. But he’s breathing. And that’s all that counts.   
Between the nervous drumming of his fingers, his constant re-situating, and his obsessive face touching it feels to Ian like the flight has taken five years by the time they finally land.   
The sun is too bright, the air is too humid and they have no idea where they’re going when they step out of the tiny airport. He slips his hand into his husband’s, taking a moment to glance him over from head to toe. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. Some grey hairs starting to poke through the inky black near his temples. A few lines on his forehead that are permanent now instead of only appearing when he raises his eyebrows - which is pretty much all the time anyway. The ones Ian loves the most are the smile lines. Just barely starting to show. But there. And all those smiles that created those lines, fuck he loves those.   
“The fuck you lookin’ at?” he finally wonders, head turning, gaze landing and holding Ian’s own.  
“You,” he grins.  
“Yeah, well maybe you should be lookin’ for our next move here instead. Maybe a ride outta…” he stops talking suddenly, his eyes having swept the parking lot. Landing on and holding steady contact.  
She’s not hard to find. She’s that chick with the long legs sitting nonchalantly on the tailgate of a truck, smoking a joint with one leg drawn towards her chest, the other swinging back and forth lazily. Her face hidden behind a pair of aviators and under the shade of a ball cap. A cocky smirk rising on her lips while she takes them in, “you ready to live like fuckin’ kings for the next ten days or what?”   
“Fuck,” his voice thick with fifteen years worth of emotions he’ll never put words on, “some things never fuckin’ change,” he whispers before he finds his feet and heads her way.  
Smiling as he watches them embrace, a safe strong embrace, Ian thinks some things need never change.   
————

There. You happy now?


End file.
